sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here
by Farewell to Mediocrity
Summary: And when Derek finally returned to Beacon Hills, it was a usual Tuesday afternoon. There were no big announcement and celebration, no crushing hugs or aggressive accusations, no weeping affection, welcoming grand gestures…nothing. Well, there was no one really left.
1. this is how we measure, walking away

_A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river_

 _but then he's still left with the river._

 _A man takes his sadness and throws it away_

 _but then he's still left with his hands._

 _-Richard Siken_

And when Derek finally came back to Beacon Hills, it was a usual Tuesday afternoon. There were no big announcement and celebration, no crushing hugs or aggressive accusations, no weeping affection, welcoming grand gestures…nothing. Well, there was no one really left. It has been five years after all; he has no right to expect anyone to stay put. Beacon Hills was a Hale territory and as the last surviving member, (Peter doesn't count for shits anymore) it was Derek's job to protect it. But if he himself was willing to shrug off that responsibility and run away in search of peace, some semblance of sanity, and a purpose to go on, who is he to blame the rest of the pack for moving away?

It was only after the second week of his arrival that he went out in search of a familiar face. He found that the Stilinski house is now inhabited by an old couple that moved to the small town after retirement about a year ago. He marched to the McCall house and when no one opened the door, he dropped by the station only to discover another man sitting behind the corner office of Sheriff Stilinski. When he asked the officer at the counter, she looked at him oddly and said that the Sheriff passed away from a cardiac arrest approximately 3 years back. He couldn't ask her about Stiles. It didn't feel right to ask _her_. A stranger. A young police officer who wasn't in the force yet when it was Derek's prerogative to run in and out of the Sheriff's office to ask for favours about the next big, bad thing that was after them. To ask him to destroy records. Or get classified information. Or crack his mind over some important clue about supernatural incidents. It wasn't right to ask her when he should have stayed for the answers all those years ago.

He walked out of the station, hoping to go to the hospital and find Mrs McCall. Where is Scott? Or he will look for Deaton. Someone, anyone who can tell him where Stiles would have gone, if he was alright, if he had someone looking after him. He knows he wouldn't have survived the years after the fire if he didn't have Laura getting him out of bed everyday. Halfway to the car, he had to stop and actually deal with emotions he has long since tried to get rid of. Derek is intimately familiar with loss and grief and the utter betrayal of knowing that the world will never offer him reprieve from the bone-aching loneliness. He knows what it means to have your entire world ripped apart mercilessly; he knows the weight of a lifeless body against his chest, how it feels to cradle the cadaver of a loved one, and rock back and forth until he can't anymore, because they're only truly dead when you let go. His family, Laura, Boyd, Allison, all of them... they're only hopelessly, irreversibly gone when someone finally gives up and lays them on the ground, in the pool of their own blood, and the tragedy is that we all eventually do. So, really, the fact that the Sheriff is no longer around has no power to shock him. Derek Hale has lived through death a dozen times and at some point, he has had to numb his senses and mechanically function.

Then, why does it sting like flesh torn off from his chest up to his torso to recall the Sheriff's perpetually worried yet gentle eyes? Why does his voice calling Derek _son_ once or twice ring in his head and make him want to run a mile a minute until he physically cannot bear to think of anything? And yet, he thinks of Stiles, remembers the dead and haunted look after Allison's death, the entire month of him reeking with the stench of loss mingled with panic and self-hatred and vast, empty rage… the hollow surprise and immediate disappointment when Derek finally packed his bags and left. He cannot imagine the damage done on that boy, losing his only family even if it's not for supernatural reasons. And he doesn't think he wants to know where Stiles went after all. Not if he wants to hold on to his own sanity and start over in this town.


	2. acquainted with the night

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

 _I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

 _I have outwalked the furthest city light._

 _I have looked down the saddest city lane._

 _I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

 _And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

 _\- Robert Frost_

For two months upon his arrival in Beacon Hills, Derek remained a shadow in the town. He stayed in the loft for the most parts. He was no longer driving his flashy Camaro, strutting around in his leather jacket, visiting the burnt, half-standing Hale mansion for people to actually notice him. If he can't admit to anyone else, he can at least do the courtesy of admitting to himself that he quite frankly refuses to get out lest people recognise him. Five years is a long time, but a story like Hale's becomes a twisted legend of the town, remembered and passed down long after he's gone. Sort of like the boogeyman. Especially given that the entire town heard and saw and read the news about Derek Hale suspected for murdering his own sister in cold blood and burying her body in pieces in front of their childhood home. Although he was released promptly after, that kind of story doesn't die easy. There are still people old enough to know a certain broody, almost suspicious figure that they used to watch out for.

And perhaps this is all really just in Derek's head but he can't help it. Perhaps this is the effect of being an omega. The isolation of a werewolf from his pack doesn't just make him physically weaker and easier to target; it makes him scared of the world at large. And never before had it been said that Derek Hale was scared of anything really. The man would throw himself into a showdown with an Alpha Pack without a single consideration for his well-being, but that's the difference, isn't it? He would do it because he had a pack to protect. No matter how broken and divided. Even if said pack had a number of bratty teenage punks that haven't been a werewolf for more than two days, but think they are too good to be led by him. (Okay, he did fuck up being an Alpha, but he had a good excuse. Nobody could say that his heart wasn't in the right place.) Even after he gave up his powers and became a beta and got thrown against walls for his troubles by a possessed human, he had reasons to be brave.

Through all of that, he never had to think twice about, "What would people say if I walked out of my house in daylight?" It would have been a ludicrous thought to even have. What the hell did he care about what people would say? He was deeply mourning and his life was utter shit and if he wasn't thinking about the next shitstorm that would inevitably kill him, he was too preoccupied thinking about killing himself in the shell of the Hale Mansion, deep in the woods. And for every other moment in between, he had a pack to look after. A Sheriff and a nurse and a hunter that he eventually learnt to trust, he had all of them to look after. And a couple of humans running with a pack of wolves, too ridiculous to think about, but in the quiet of solitude, he can admit to himself that without Stiles and Lydia, his pack and him wouldn't have survived more than a week. He had… a family of sorts here. He didn't realise what that meant when he left, too achingly tired of a past that never stopped hunting him down to realise that he was on the verge of building a future with all these people in it.

It is only now, being back in town for two months, holed up in his loft, ordering take-outs solely from restaurant franchises because the delivery boys are always younger and unsuspecting of his presence, as compared to the small restaurants with the same owners for twenty over years who check every delivery order addresses (Derek really has developed an anxiety of people finding out that he is back, not just townspeople but any other fucking supernatural assholes that would come after him for no good reason), it is only now, with his mind still racing back and forth between itching to find Scott and Stiles and even Lydia and Kira, and wanting to leave behind everything from his past altogether, that he really considers what it means for him that he, a born wolf, is an omega again.

The last time that happened was after Laura died, but even then, within weeks, he had a fresh, newly bitten werewolf he had to focus on, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to find a bond to latch onto. For self-preservation. And when he left with Braeden, he had Braeden. He didn't really consider himself an omega per say because with the security of another strong person by his side and the knowledge of having a pack back in Beacon Hills, he just kept moving. When he was constantly on the move, a _home_ didn't matter, it wasn't on his mind. Now, he's back, but he's not _home._ He's done calling the remnants of a mansion or the loft that he bought for convenience of pack meetings a home. If home were the people he cared about, well, he doesn't have them anymore. So, where does he go from here?


	3. the world is too full to talk about

_Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing_  
 _and rightdoing there is a field._  
 _I'll meet you there._

 _When the soul lies down in that grass_  
 _the world is too full to talk about._  
— Jalaluddin Rumi

Derek wakes up from a nap that he unconsciously drifted into while reading Dostoyevsky's _Notes from Underground._ He doesn't even remember where exactly he stopped so he spends ten minutes trying to find the page before giving up and leaning across the couch to grab his phone. He had a dream about Braeden. Well, it was nothing that he remembers vividly, something about a conversation, they were at a parking lot, then they were at Beacon Hills High School, near the music room, then they were in an unnamed motel…Whatever. He had the urge to talk to her so he texted.

 _Hey. You okay?_

 **yeah. u?**

 **did stg happen?**

 _No, I'm just checking in._

 **hows bh?**

 _Don't know._

 **waddya mean? i tot you were headed there.**

 _I am in Beacon Hills. But I don't know. I haven't really left the loft._

 **y?**

 _Nobody's here. Or… I don't know. Maybe Scott is, I didn't look for him._

After a second, he sends another text.

 _Sheriff passed away apparently. Found out when I stopped by the station._

 **shuld i come?**

 _To Beacon Hills? No. Nothing dangerous. It was heart attack._

 **the kid ok?**

 _Stiles isn't here. He left. I don't know where._

 **derek theres ntg there for u in bh. u can come back i'll let u b my sidekick no issues**

 _Very funny._

 **im serious der. if theres no pack wat r u still doing there**

 _I can't keep running away._

 **then stop. coz it sounds 2 me like u still are.**

 _I got to go. Talk to you later. Call me if you need backup._

 **yeah exctly wat i meant. i luv u but u gotta get ur shit 2gtr.**

 **btw call me if shit goes down in ur shit town.**

Derek laughs a little at the last text, ignoring the weird, almost nauseous feeling he got when Braeden claimed he's still running. He doesn't know what she means and he doesn't really want to know. Because if she's right by any chance, he doesn't know how to stop and that thought is too much for him to handle right now. He figured coming back to Beacon Hills is making peace, settling down, all that shit. But… yeah, maybe she has a point. He should get out of the loft.

His relationship with Braeden is by far the most successful and healthy one he has ever had. Of course anything is healthier in comparison to his dead high school sweetheart and two psychopathic murderers that he had dated, still who would have thought? A mercenary who hunts for money and a born werewolf whose mother was the guardian of Beacon Hills. She had strict moral codes. She probably wouldn't have approved of Braeden. But she probably also wouldn't have approved of Derek. How weak he became, unsteady with no conviction in any decisions he made, not good enough to lead, not fit to protect anybody, in short, a complete wreck. But knowing his mother, she would have loved him anyway, even if she wasn't proud of him.

Braeden though, she never judged. Didn't set him up against a certain standard. Didn't expect him to be anything really. She went about her business and he his. Occassionally they hunted together when she needed help and the target is evil enough to be worthy of taking out. If it went against his moral code, she wouldn't ask him to help or tell him about the case. And like that, there was a fragile sense of harmony that enveloped them.

But that also just means that neither of them knew all that much about each other. The sex was great, Derek enjoyed waking up next to someone, Braeden liked the security of having someone who'll come after her if she was abducted or hurt, it was very comforting for a long time. Three years. They travelled wherever they wanted to, Braeden picked and chose the cases she wanted to take so they had enough time in their hands to do things for themselves. Sometimes, they would remain holed up in a motel for weeks on end. Only going out to eat. Watching movies in the room, talking about the next trip, practising body combat in a nearby gym if there were any.

She taught him to use all sorts of weapon, particularly guns. He taught her how to use her body like one, how to move as fast and lethal as a bullet, throw punches like petrol bombs, run swiftly like a wild arrow, he'd push and push and she'd cuss at him but eventually, she knew she was stronger than she was with him training her than when she trained on her own. Then they'd go back to wherever they were staying for the night, have mind blowing sex, Braeden would drink a cold beer or two, and Derek would fold their clothes fresh from the laundry.

She would laugh at how he folds them so meticulously, colour-coded and all. He'd take her clothes and dump them on her head in retaliation. And after folding all of his, he would pick hers up from where they're strewn on the floor and silently do hers too. It almost feels domestic for him. He'd always carry a book with him in his duffel bag. Once he's done reading, he'd leave them behind in a café somewhere for someone else to read if they want. But days sitting in the motel room, he'd quietly read on the bed and Braeden will clean her weapons with reverence. When she's busy tracking down information online about her case or calling up people, he would go out for a walk, buy a meal, sometimes, sit under a tree and watch his claws sink into soil just to feel his claws out again.

His wolf gets restless from time to time so they would head over to a cabin in some woods nearby and he would shift and run and run and run till he tires the wolf out. Occassionally, she would run with him but she can hardly go halfway as far as his wolf can so he would slowly jog with her back to the cabin before taking off again. When they don't have the luxury of some kind of preserve nearby, he would shift in the room and stay in his wolf form for the entire day, just lounging on the floor. She wouldn't question it. Once or twice, she has tried to run her fingers through his fur, scratch behind his ear, hug him a little. He never outright pushed her off and snarled at her, but that's because he's good with self-restraint. It always feels like crossing a line for him. She could touch him all she wants when he's human, but when he's a wolf, he is only comfortable around pack. And even so, not everyone in a pack. He wouldn't appreciate Lydia or Kira touching him like that. They're not wolves. Scott can because Derek has accepted him as his Alpha and it's always reassuring to have your Alpha bond with your wolf form. Stiles… well, he probably wouldn't mind all that much. He doesn't know. It's perhaps odd cause Stiles is more human than Lydia and Kira. That should leave him more averse to being touched in his wolf form. But he doubts he'd mind it as much. Maybe because Stiles has saved his life a number of times and his wolf trusts him more than anyone else. If the situation arose, he'd find out, but it won't so, whatever. He doesn't like to think about hypothetical situations for no good reason. That's more of a Stiles thing to do.

While Braeden is as close to him as she could be, he doesn't approve of her stroking his fur when he's wolfed out. He wouldn't say it but she probably noticed the way his body tensed and his fur stood on end. She stopped after that.

The next day, when he was eating a steak at the diner, she looked over the burger she was holding up and said, "Learn to use your words, Der. We aren't all raised by wolves."

He knew what she was talking about, but he pretended to be confused and she just rolled her eyes and let it slide. He was thankful for that. The first two years of him being away, occasionally he would get texts from the pack. For the first three months, it was only Scott checking on him.

 **you doing good man?**

 _Yes._

 **you safe?**

 _Yes._

 **see yourself coming home soon?**

 _No._

 **your gf still with you right?**

 _Yes._

 **take care derek. call me if you need something**

 _You too._

That was their entire conversation, just with a slight variety every time Scott texts. Except once or twice when he needed information about something supernatural and asked Derek for answers.

 _Need me?_

 **no derek we got it covered**

Eventually, maybe because of Derek's inability to answer more than a word, or maybe because Scott has a pack and doesn't need to look after someone who consciously chose to leave behind everything, Scott stopped checking on him.

His interactions with Stiles were even more scattered and wordless. Stiles doesn't text him with words. He just sends pictures every few months once, snapshots of the life he is no longer a part of. First, it was a picture of Kira and Scott at a club. They look drunk, all flushed and sweaty, but there's a beautiful, almost haunting glow of an orange fox leaning towards Scott even as she throws her head back and laughs. It almost took Derek's breath away. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to see that. He had nothing to say, so he didn't.

Three months after, Stiles sent a picture of the pack eating pizza. Malia sitting on the floor, chewing on a crust, Kira passing a slice of pizza to Scott while he reaches out to take it, Liam and Mason leaning close, looking at the phone screen that Mason's holding up, Lydia staring dead pan directly at the camera, unamused by Stiles taking a picture. Derek said nothing.

For Christmas, he sent a picture of the Sheriff looking irritated at a bowl of salad placed in front of him, while Derek could see Mrs McCall heaping roast beef on Liam's plate, Scott already digging into his meal. That made Derek laugh and Braeden was almost taken aback by the sudden mirth. Derek isn't really the laughing sort. It hurt in a good way, knowing everybody was safe and together and happy. It also made him long for something that he had no words for. So, he walked into the fancy apartment balcony that Braeden and he rented for Christmas week, took a picture of the quite frankly, not-so-stunning view of city lights, and sent it to Stiles without a caption.

 **:))))) Merry Xmas, sourwolf.**

Derek didn't reply but he was probably smiling when he walked back to the couch where Braeden and he were having glasses of wine (his was mixed with a wee bit of wolfsbane cause it's Christmas and he should be allowed to get tipsy).

She asked, "Who's it from?"

"Stiles."

"What did he say?"

He shrugged, "Nothing. Just a picture of Christmas dinner."

"Didn't know you kept in touch with them."

Derek looked up a little defensively and said, "I don't really… I mean—"

"Hey, I was just saying. It's good if you wanna keep in touch. Nothing wrong."

Derek said nothing for a long while. When he had gulped down an entire glass of wolfsbane-spiked wine, he mumbled quietly, "I don't want to keep in touch."

"Why?" Braeden said quietly from where her head was rested against his lap.

"Cause there's nothing to say. I get a text once in a while cause Scott is my Alpha and he feels responsible for me."

"Stiles?"

"Well, he's Scott's best friend. So, he probably just feels like he should do it on behalf of Scott."

Braeden shifted to her side, facing Derek. "Maybe he just misses you."

"Yeah, I mean he's stronger when I'm around. Pack thrives on numbers after all. But he seems to be doing fine without me. He's good at this," he said with a fond smile. The trailing afterthought of _he's a better Alpha than I could ever be_ was left unspoken.

Braeden looked really confused for a moment before she turned over and closed her eyes again. "I wasn't talking about Scott."

As she softly snored in an almost drunken haze, he ran a hand through her hair. Maybe he misses… everyone back in Beacon Hills too.

A month after, Stiles sent him a picture of the night sky, star-studded with almost a full moon. The immediate thought that dawned upon him was the shift that would take place in a day or two. He hoped Scott has got Liam and Malia under control. He figured there's nothing he can do anyway, he was in Mexico at this point of time. And if Scott needed him, he'd call. He figured Stiles just thought the sky was pretty or something, so he didn't reply.

After four months of nothing, Stiles sent him a picture of Scott, Lydia, Kira, and Stiles smiling with their graduation robes and hats on, the thumb of the person taking the picture slightly obstructing the view. Derek stared at it for a long time. They seem to be smiling wide, but there was a certain gloom in their eyes. They made it after all, to something as mundane as graduation when you take into consideration the magnitude of troubles they faced that kept them out of school. He could feel the gaping absence of Allison between Scott and Lydia. Of Erica next to Stiles, Isaac and Boyd. They made it after all, but not all of them did. He stared for a long time because it hurt. It hurt a lot suddenly.

Then he noticed that it was the only picture Derek had of Stiles; the pictures he would usually send were ones that Stiles captured. He was never in them. This time, he was. His hair was spiked up, longer and more fashionable than his past buzz cut self, his clothes finally fit him, he could catch a glimpse of a dark blue shirt and black pants underneath the robe. He looked... stronger, more grown up, healthier. Not happier, but like he could finally get enough sleep at night.

Braeden looked over his shoulder and said, "Looks like the kids are okay."

Derek just hummed.

"Wanna go home to celebrate with them? It's only a five hour drive from here."

Derek just turned off his phone, tugged off his socks, and went to grab the steaming Chinese fried rice in the carton resting on the bedside table. They said nothing after that.

And when Stiles sent another picture two days later, of his D.H. initials written in the school library, Derek was half-asleep in the morning still, deleted that particular picture and went back to bed.


	4. our past is a ghost town

_Time doesn't obey our commands._  
 _You cannot make it holy just because it is disappearing._  
― Meghan O'Rourke

It takes another whole month before Derek finally gets sick of his self-imposed isolation. Even the daily run across the woods in his wolf form can't scratch away the itch of needing to get out and do something. Anything. He guesses this is the human in him, not necessarily needing people, like a pack per say, but wanting a sense of belonging to the world at large. Wanting to be a part of this thing called living and not just observing from the sidelines. So, he finally puts on his dad's leather jacket, one that has survived through claws and blood stains, one that he has mended so many times that it's quite possibly a whole new leather jacket by now, but he doesn't like to think of it that way. This is all he has of his father's. Other than the brooding silence that Derek has inherited from him. Anyway, he wears it, feels himself become small in it, but somehow impassable, and walks to the grocery store. He walks because fuck Beacon Hills, yes, Derek Hale is back, stare all you want.

But nobody even glances at him and in some odd way, it stings more than if they outright stared at him. This whole town has moved on without Derek. Without Sheriff Stilinski who had protected the town to the best of his ability. Without his 'smart-mouthed, constantly reeking of anxiety, but too damn brave and mule-headed for his own good' son. Without the Hale pack that had for generations settled in this soil and grown deep like the root of roots, guarded this beacon through storms that would have wiped it out effortlessly. This town has lost entire families that have once devoted their very existence to keep this town alive, yet this town forgets. So easily. It swallows the histories whole and churns out nothingness. It stands, despite it all, a mouth without teeth, gaping wide with no remembrance of the children that were buried deep within its belly. Children like Boyd. Like Allison. Like Laura.

While thinking about Vernon Boyd, Derek turns into a random aisle in the grocery store and sees the older woman with dark curls, looking as beautiful and warm as he remembered from a long while back. Something about her radiates the feeling of coming home, no matter who you are, in her presence, you belong. And Derek, he'd never admit it to himself, but seeing her there in her scrubs, picking out spatulas is the most relieving sight since he returned to Beacon Hills three months ago. At least she is safe. And if she is here and she looks fine, though a little grey at her temples and a little dark below her eyes, then he can be assured that Scott is safe. He considers turning back and escaping before her gaze falls on him, but his body wouldn't budge an inch in the other direction. So, he steps towards her, gingerly, without a sound. And in that half-a-minute, he thinks about turning back a dozen times and almost succeeded once, but his legs carry him awkwardly to three footsteps away from her when she turns abruptly with a kitchen knife in her hand, price tag still dangling from the handle, looking absolutely furious and quite frankly terrifying that Derek takes two steps back without meaning to. He is a werewolf after all, but look at him, stumbling back at the sight of Melissa McCall, the ever exhausted nurse and mother.

And when she sees him, like properly sees him, she drops the knife and mutters, "Jesus kid, don't ever scare me like that, I thought I was being followed."

She crosses the distance so quickly and throws her arms around him without a qualm and hugs him before he could process it. A good, solid hug. A mum hug. He can't remember her ever hugging him like that. Hell, he can't remember ever being on the receiving end of that hug in over a decade. He doesn't bring her arms to wrap around her, but he lets her take a bit of his weight as he leans into the hug.

With her hand rubbing between his shoulder blades, she says softly in his ears, "Derek. So good to see you again. You look well." She pulls back, "Are you well? You're doing okay?"

Derek nods. He doesn't quite smile but he knows she knows how grateful he is for the hug.

"Good, good. I wanted to call you home the minute I heard you were back, but Scott told me to give you time. He said you'd come see us when you're ready." She places her palm against his cheek, "I'm glad you're okay, Derek. I really am."

It takes all of his self-restraint to not press his cheek against her palm. He hasn't realised it himself how touch-starved he is, locking himself up in the loft for three months, and before that, travelling by himself for a year after parting ways with Braeden for once and for all. But wait, what does she mean she _heard_ that he was back and _Scott_ … what? He must have said some of that out loud, or perhaps she read it in the way he raises his eyebrows.

She shrugs, "Don't ask me. Scott told me you were back. Said his wolf felt it. I didn't bother asking further."

Derek is half-confused, but so very proud to hear that. Scott is quite-frankly not the brightest of Alphas when it comes to paying attention to his wolf. Derek had to drill into him the habit of sniffing a place out before stepping in, tuning into a person's heartbeat as they speak, learning to tell apart emotions through chemosignals, listening to a howl and knowing if it's his pack or a stray wolf, if it's a sign of distress, a rally cry or a warning from the alpha of a pack merely passing through. So, the fact that Scott knew he was back even if he himself had not known if Scott was still around in Beacon Hills makes Derek proud.

Before he could refuse her invitation, she has paid for both their groceries, grabbed the bags, and marched straight to her beat-up car, leaving Derek no room for negotiations. Dinner at her place. Period. As she drives, she talks. Tells him about work, a cancer patient she had been looking after for the past four months passed away two days ago, she talks about the two supernatural incidents, one involving witches, that happened a year after Derek left, about how Scott and Stiles with the help of Deaton had to perform a druid ritual that almost cost their lives to force the Nemeton into dormancy again, and how ever since, the town has been pretty quiet. And when she's turning a corner past the traffic light, four minutes from reaching home, she tells him about Sheriff Stilinski. How he passed away in his sleep, how Stiles had called her at 10 am when she was at work because he doesn't know who else to call. How she felt like the ground under her feet just crumbled and fell apart. How she'd never forget that day. How silent and calm Stiles was, how cold he had become, how he didn't cry. And as she recalls this, her eyes water and her voice wavers, and Derek honours her with his quiet presence.

She parks her car, says, "Oh well, it has been… what? 3 years now? 3 years next month, yes, 25th August. You'd think it would get easier."

She sighs, gets out of the car, and carries the bags in a practised, unthinking manner.

He stalls for a moment, thinking if he could get out of this impromptu dinner, when she places the bags against the door, pulls out her key and says loudly without turning to look at him, "Don't even think about it, Derek. Get your ass in here."

He is halfway through his mug of tea while Mrs McCall cuts onions and tomatoes for dinner when he hears the sound of a motorbike, a steady heartbeat suddenly picking up pace, frantic footsteps reaching the door and he says quietly to nobody in particular, perhaps to Mrs McCall, "Scott's here."

Derek's voice sounds rough, unused, and it surprises him. It finally dawns on him that he hasn't quite spoken to anyone in months. He hasn't even howled when he ran in the woods. He'd usually howl to let his pack know where exactly he is. What reasons does he have to ever howl anymore? He clears his throat like that would make any difference, and the door swings open, revealing a boy with a … no, a man with a crooked jaw and mussed dark hair and intense brown eyes staring at him for a beat as he puts down his mug and stands up. Scott lunges at him. There's no other way to define it. He didn't just throw his arms out, he threw his entire body in the direction of Derek and grabs him hard. Derek stumbles back against the dining table that tips precariously before righting itself and Derek hugs him with a hard pat or two on Scott's back.

Scott pulls back and looks at him, really looks at him.

"You've got grey hair in your beard, man."

Derek rolls his eyes and the young Alpha smiles that gummy smile of his. He leads Derek to Scott's bedroom that doesn't look all that different from years ago. It hits Derek with a sense of nostalgia. Everything's pretty much where it was except the reading table has been shifted to the corner and the cupboard replaced… and the ever present scent of a certain teenage boy that was attached at the hip with Scott is now… not there.

Scott still looks the same, but he _feels_ different. More confident, assertive, even his gaze is more focused and stern. Not like the young boy who used to glare with anger yet look like a puppy with flaring nostrils. Something about him is steady now, immovable. Like he knows his place and purpose as certain as the forests and the mountains know theirs. He feels like an Alpha, and not merely in the red eyes-and-claws sense, but anyone who walks into this territory looking for an Alpha would know he is one, would not underestimate him due to his youth and inexperience. Not like before when wolves from other packs would look past Scott to speak to Derek, even when Derek's eyes instantly flash blue at them to indicate that he is a beta.

In a territory negotiation, an Alpha from another pack had once said in front of Scott how he anticipates that Scott would have his throat slit by Derek soon enough, so he might as well deal directly with the upcoming Alpha. Derek was a hair's breadth away from slamming his clawed fist into that insolent Alpha's face who would even insinuate such disloyalty, uncaring of the war he might trigger between the packs because everyone in the room knows Scott's pack would win anyway, but Scott pushed him back with an arm across his chest and flashed his red eyes at him. Later, in the quiet of the night as Derek drove Scott home, he asked Scott if he believed that Derek would do such a thing, due to his own insecurity of being placed in the same level as Peter who would shamelessly, without conscience, trap and murder his own family for power.

Scott huffed a breath and said, "Derek, he wasn't implying you were untrustworthy. He just thinks I'm a shit alpha and that you're better fit for the position and after everything we've been through, I agree."

"No, you're not. You're a true Alpha, you're better than any—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. It just means I am still a long way from proving my worth. But I got you to teach me, so... whatever, man. Don't worry about what that asshole said. The negotiation's done, we don't ever have to see him again."

But less than a month from then, Derek packed his bags and left the pack. Scott turned out okay after all. Better than he would have with Derek around. What could Derek, a fucked up Alpha who within a few months of forming a pack, had the entire pack either dead or running for the hills, abandoning him, could have possibly taught Scott McCall?

"How did you know I was back?" Derek asks.

"I ride past your building to get home from Deaton's clinic every day."

Derek raises an eyebrow at that. "I haven't left the loft until two weeks back. You couldn't have known even if you rode past."

"I don't know, man. I was on your street one night, months ago, and my wolf started reacting. I was halfway through a shift and I had to stop the bike. I was right in front of your building and I could feel my wolf urging me to go up and I just knew you were back. And last week, while I was on patrol duty, I was running through the preserve and I caught your scent. It was weak, like you had been there days before me, but I knew it was you."

Derek must have look impressed because Scott lets out a short laugh and smirks at him.

"Pretty cool, huh? I finally learned how to feel my pack's presence."

Derek looks away and says nothing.

Scott adds, "That is… if you still want to be in my pack, Derek. No pressure, man."

"It's been a long time. I don't think I'm a part of your pack even if I want to."

"Of course you are. If you want to be in—"

"No, Scott. It's not as easy as being in and out as we like. I've been gone too long. I'm an omega now. I can feel it. It's the same way Cora and I grew up in a family and a pack together but when she returned here, she couldn't be my pack. Hers is in Mexico. It doesn't matter what she or I want. It just is."

"Guess we'll have to work on that then. Make you feel like pack again."

Derek doesn't tell him that there's no need for it anymore. He doesn't feel like he wants to be in Scott's pack, not now. Not after everyone's dead or gone. Those who stuck around, Malia, Liam, Mason, Kira, some new wolves as well according to Scott… while he's certain they feel like family to Scott, Derek has no ties to them whatsoever. Not even Malia who is his blood relation. And he doesn't want to try to form a bond either. He's used to being alone now. It only matters when there's danger, when there's a territory dispute or a new supernatural clusterfuck, but given that Scott and Stiles have somehow diffused the Nemeton's powers, he doubts that would be a problem any time soon. If there is a shit storm waiting to happen, yes, Derek would volunteer to work with Scott's pack. He will need their protection and they will need his strength. Otherwise, there's nothing to lure him into pack life with the new kids on the block. Especially given that he has no idea how long he's planning to stay in Beacon Hills. Well, that's something to think about another day.

What Derek really wants to know, the burning question he has been harbouring since his very first day back in Beacon Hills is, "Where's Stiles?"

"You heard about the Sheriff, right?"

Derek nods and Scott says, "Well, Stiles didn't feel like he had anything left here for him. He wanted to get out. I think he has it in his head, if it weren't for all the batshit crazy that his dad had to see, like us and Darach and all that," he sees Derek nod and continues, " the Sheriff would have lived longer. I think he blames Beacon Hills for everything. Like it's cursed or something—"

"It is," Derek interrupts. "In some ways, it is."

"Yeah, I guess. But what can I do? He just showed up one night, hysterical and crying a few months after his dad was gone, asked me to go with him, leave everything behind, go to college and be a vet or something," Scott says quietly, like remembering that night still hurts him.

"You didn't."

Scott directs his gaze at Derek from staring at his hands. "I can't, Derek. Look around you. This peace, it's just a façade. If I leave, it will fall apart."

Derek nods understandingly, "Your reputation as the true Alpha keeps the town safe."

" _Our_ reputation."

When Derek looks confused, he adds, "So many packs out there still think we have two Alphas in a pack, me and you. And you, well, you have quite a reputation too. Talia Hale's blood, full-shifting wolf... And they've all heard about the Alpha Pack trying to recruit us, they've also heard about how we decimated them. And recruited what was left of them instead. What with a hunter, a kitsune, a banshee, a human possessed by a nogitsune, a werecoyote, an emissary… well, let's just say _our_ reputation precedes us. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Derek nods his assent, but carefully says, "Don't be reckless though, Scott. Reputation only goes so far. Until some narcissistic psychopaths decide to try their luck. You gotta make sure your pack now is stronger than we ever were. Cause when shit comes for you next, and you can bet it will sooner or later, it will be more massive than anything else so far."

Scott swallows and dips his head, "It's the same thing Deaton tells me. It's what Stiles said when he asked me to get out of here."

"They are… wise," Derek finishes lamely.

Scott huffs a little. "They are. You know, Stiles was gonna be our emissary. He was learning from Deaton."

"I thought you need magic for that."

"Yeah, that's what we thought too but Deaton said magic is just a fancy word for the skill acquired by an emissary. As long as the person has the strength to move the skies with their stubborn will, or some cryptic shit like that, so-"

The two of them echo each other, "Stiles."

They laughed softly at that.

"He left though," Derek says, trying to not let this conversation about Stiles die out. He is extremely curious about what happened to him.

"Deaton's our emissary still. Stiles was learning from him. Deaton said he was good at it."

"Deaton was my pack's emissary too."

"Yeah, you've told me before. He talks about it sometimes. About Tal- your mum. How he had never known a more worthy Alpha. He wants to make me something like her."

Derek smiles, "You're capable of it. She would have approved of you."

"Thanks, man. I… that means so much. Coming from you. Just… it must have been so frustrating for you, dealing with my stupidity when you had been led by Talia Hale herself."

"I was too preoccupied being frustrated with myself. I wasn't half the Alpha you are, let alone my mother. Laura was worthy. Laura would have been like my mother if she had... more time… to form a pack."

 _If she wasn't slaughtered by my power-tripping uncle_ was left unspoken but Scott heard it all the same.

Derek meant it though. His mother would have approved of Scott. When she trained Laura to someday inherit her role as the guardian and the leader, she would have Laura lead a few pack meetings, bring her to territory negotiations. Nobody dared to make fun or shrug off the young beta calling the shots because there his mother sat, the matriarch leading the entire werewolf community, a work of nature radiating power and grace and strength and sagacity and most of all, the unfathomably profound combination of humanity and wolf instincts. The sole Alpha who can shape shift into an actual wolf while retaining the most humane compassion for every soul.

 _We're predators, but we don't have to be killers._

Derek can still hear her voice in his head, clear like a single drop of dew rippling through a lake momentously larger than itself.

And his sister, his beautiful sister… Even if she didn't possess the rare ability to shift completely into a wolf, she had similar tenacity and grace and compassion with more cunning wit, enigma, and humour, a sense of righteousness that she inherited from her parents, the ability to charm an entire community of wolves with a single eloquent speech. Her commands were always laced with a genuine feeling of camaraderie that even the older Alphas of other packs couldn't begrudge her. They were willing to spare her their time and counsel.

He had been there for a few of these negotiations for backup, he has seen the two women lead the otherwise power-thirsty, wolf-eating-wolf community to be stronger, more united, more humane... Perhaps if Laura lived longer, she too would have been able to shift into an actual wolf. Derek is half the werewolf she is in terms of strength, control, well, everything, and he can now shift like his mother. He is certain that Laura being the better werewolf would have attained the same level of control in her shift too.

And Scott, he sometimes reminds him of Laura. He can imagine it. He knows his mother would have permitted Scott to take the reins, the way she did with Laura. Which is a lot more than what can be said about Derek. Peter is an asshole, sure, but he was right to call Derek unworthy of being Talia's bloodline.

He pushes that thought to the back of his mind, only to find his mind clutching at the tail of the ever-haunting thought about Stiles. He doesn't know how to veer the conversation back there so he doesn't try.

Just asks Scott directly, "Where is Stiles?"

Scott looks up surprised that Derek said something after long minutes of silence.

"Huh? Stiles. New York. Going to school there. Moved in with Lydia. It's been what, two and a half years now?"

And something about that statement causes Derek's heart rate to spike and Scott, being more observant now, immediately picks up on it.

He side eyes Derek, gaze fleeting over his face for a fragment of a second, and that makes Derek even more anxious so he blurts out, "I used to live in New York. With Laura. After… the fire. Went to school there too before…"

Scott nods in understanding. Derek is certain his heartbeat couldn't have stuttered because it's true. He lived there for almost 5 years, started his degree in Architecture, about to enter into a negotiation with the pack there to allow Laura to form a pack of her own in New York. Before they could get that far, Laura left to Beacon Hills over a phone call and few days after, Derek felt all sorts of wrong and chased after her trail to find his sister's severed body. The rest, well, Scott was there to witness it happen.

So, maybe that's why Derek's heartbeat went haywire for a second. He remembers what it felt like, the day Laura approached him about leaving Beacon Hills and taking off to New York. He remembers the years she spent, painstakingly building him up from the wreck he had become. It took him nearly a year to even begin talking again. He was utterly silent since the fire. She had enrolled him into night classes so he could graduate from high school after almost two years of slacking. Then, he did his pre-university course and wanted to major in Architecture. He told her, someday, when they go back to Beacon Hills, he will rebuild the mansion, just the way they remember it. She hugged him for that. Laura on the other hand, finished her degree in law, wanted to go into criminal law. It suited her temperament and eloquence and righteousness. They lived in an apartment together. Derek always looked at it as temporary but Laura said, _Home isn't a building, Der. It is where_ _ **we**_ _are. And now, we are here. So, let's make a home._

She'd take pictures of them, trying to live again. Random pictures. Derek taking a nap on the couch with an open book on his chest, the two of them in a ferris wheel, she, trying to look happy and he, just outright failing, Derek falling asleep on her shoulder in the train, side portrait of Derek watching baseball on TV while she leans against him with a big smile... unclear and unspectacular as it was, she framed and hung them on the walls. There were a lot more pictures that she took of Derek either unconscious or not paying attention in the background while she tries to smile at the camera, because Derek couldn't bring himself to smile for a long time.

She bought little porcelain wolves and place them above the shelf that holds Derek's books, make them look like a pack howling in unison. She bought a small secondhand coffee table and made Derek paint it. Derek knew that they could afford to buy a new one, but she wanted him to paint something after he flatly refused to paint a portrait of them. Derek is good at drawing, sketching, painting. It's why he chose Architecture. But before the fire, he wanted to paint people, moments, nature... not sketch buildings. He had a knack for portraits. He honed the skill by drawing Cora since she was a baby. He had so many paintings of Cora that his mother had to roll them altogether and stuff them into the store room, because she had no heart to dispose them, no matter how deformed, but no space to hang them on walls either.

He painted his mum and dad for their anniversary, and one of Laura because she wanted to paste it in her room. And one of Paige, which he never got to give her for her birthday. And then he met Kate Argent. He had a book full of her face, her hands, her eyes, her naked self lying next to him. He is repulsed with himself for ever trying to immortalise something as ugly and grotesque as Kate into art. Of all the things that burnt in the fire, he is relieved that the sketch book burnt too. And he vowed to never paint a portrait again. So, when Laura requested that of him over and over to have something of theirs in the new apartment, he snapped at her. She had no idea the atrocities his hand had drawn, the unholiness, the monster he had been obsessed with sketching in his pad before he stopped for once and for all. But she knows that painting and sketching have always helped Derek, so she'd buy ugly, secondhand furniture with a peeling surface and force him to repaint him for her interior designing. He never got to thank her for that.

His apartment in New York is still there. Collecting dust with molding wooden furniture and picture frames of them still hanging against the walls, he assumes. He had left in a hurry to seek her out and he never went back. Perhaps the laundry hamper is still half full with the clothes she wore the week before, the coffee mug still unwashed from when he left. Maybe if he goes back there now, he could still catch her scent lingering underneath the old, musty rottenness of it all. After 11 years… Where did all these years go? It has been 11 years. He should probably consider selling that apartment.

Or perhaps moving back to New York. Go back to school. Go back to the normal life, the future that Laura and he were on the verge of building for themselves. He wouldn't be completely alone. Stiles is there. With Lydia. His heart stutters again.

He hears Braeden's voice in his head. Although she hasn't said this string of words precisely, he hears her skeptical, amused voice all the same.

 _Stop running away, Der. It sounds to me like you still are._

Since when did his inner voice started sounding like Braeden, he has no idea. His life is tragic like that. But for a second, he tries to be honest with himself and he hears her voice again.

 _What's bothering you? Stiles in New York? Or Stiles living with Lydia?_

It doesn't bother him, no, not at all. Surprised maybe. Looks like the kid's dream finally came true. The goddess he worshipped day and night, Lydia fucking Martin finally saw Stiles as someone worthy enough to allow in her temple. And sounds like they've been together for two and a half years at least, if they weren't already together when they left Beacon Hills. That's… a steady relationship. Huh, who would have thought?

Stiles is… well, he can be really infuriating sometimes, scratch that, all the time, and he smells like stale Cheetos and anxiety even on good days, but Lydia isn't a wolf to sniff that out, and she isn't particularly averse to the way Stiles' mouth runs a mile a minute or the fact that he talks and talks and fucking talks and is dumb enough to try and stall a merged twin-Alpha monster thrice his size with a baseball bat or goad Derek into punching his skinny hand to gauge if he is strong enough to punch through the wall, even when everybody in the room knows that Derek is, and is reckless… and kind enough to offer comfort to Derek when he was grieving over Boyd's dead body, brave and smart and strong enough to defeat a nogitsune from inside out, humane enough to save Derek even when he thought Derek was nothing but a massacre dressed in leather jacket and wise enough to be an emissary and… yeah, okay.

It's not all that surprising that Lydia finally saw him for who he is. Or was. Derek doesn't know Stiles anymore to make that assumption. Stiles could have changed significantly since the last text Derek received from him almost four years back. Probably he's finally at peace with his given name, doesn't even go by Stiles anymore now that he's going to school in New York. Mieczyslaw. Derek knows his real name because he may or may not have persuaded a halfway-to-drunk Sheriff when they were working on the case to capture The Mute after he buried a tomahawk in Peter's chest. He may or may not have asked the Sheriff to repeat it thrice before he gave up trying to pronounce it. The Sheriff may or may not have threatened to shoot him if he ever told Stiles that his father broke the longest running secret in Beacon Hills, the answer to the question, _What the fuck is a Stiles?_

Stiles is probably building a new life and personality and rewriting his backstory with Lydia, to sound normal, to not drag this supernatural shit life with him all the way to New York, he hasn't even been back to Beacon Hills to visit his father's grave according to Scott. Stiles could be a completely new person. Maybe someday, if fate would have it, Derek might see for himself what he has become.


	5. don't phone, don't write, don't arrive

_Suddenly it was fall, the season of death, the anniversary of things-going-to-hell._

― Meghan O'Rourke

A month has passed with Derek dropping by for dinner at the McCall's once a week, because Mrs McCall wouldn't have it any other way. But he makes sure to only visit them when there aren't any pack meetings. Scott always invites him, but something about being a part of the pack, after everything that happened feels odd, so he doesn't try. Once Scott invited Kira over for dinner when Derek was around. And once, when he was filling up gas at the station, he bumped into Mason and Liam. That is all the interactions he has had with the pack. He feels like he is still waiting for something to happen in Beacon Hills, and he's starting to understand what Braeden means by running away. Constantly looking in from the outside, waiting for something to happen that will drag him out of inaction.

He sketches the Hale Mansion with his free time. He has plenty of that now. Time. Time he didn't have when he was in Beacon Hills before, constantly being chased by one thing or another. Time that he would have been grateful to have back then, but now would do anything to get rid of. So, he sketches. Makes a blueprint of each room in the house. That's what he does when he wakes up in the morning, up until he goes to sleep at night. With occasional breaks to cook food or jog in the preserve when his wolf gets too anxious.

On the 25th of August, he tries to spend the day productively, goes shopping for wood and nails and whatever he needs to start the construction process soon, and he's at the ruined Hale house, taking measurements when he feels his wolf too close to the surface, too close to shifting. It's been three years today since the Sheriff has passed away. And from what he has gathered from Scott, Stiles… he never showed up. He left and didn't come back.

Derek knows what that feels like. He still hasn't visited the cemetery himself since the fire. But he has his reasons. He has never been able to escape the guilt of trusting the wrong people, _loving_ someone treacherous enough to burn his family alive. So, visiting the grave of his family, what was left of their ashes that were collected and buried in an urn, it feels wrong. Like he is not welcomed.

But with the Sheriff though, it bothers him that Stiles has completely abandoned his grave. He can't help but wonder how Stiles, of all people, is capable of that. He isn't like Derek. And his relationship with his father is different. It isn't something that can be abandoned, forgotten in time. It's understandable that Stiles doesn't want anything to do with Beacon Hills, but leaving behind what is left of his father's remembrance for once and for all seems uncharacteristic of someone like Stiles. Someone who used to visit his mother's grave, not once a year, but pretty frequently. Stiles who brings sunflowers because she used to love them. Derek has caught him sitting there once or twice, back in the day, when he used to patrol the preserve as the Alpha. He just never mentioned it to Stiles.

The McCalls, and the pack along with Deputy Parrish visited the cemetery in the morning. He knows because Scott texted him to ask if he wanted to come along and he didn't reply. But now, in the quiet hours of the evening with the rain softly pattering against the roof of the mansion, the leaks echoing through the house, he feels restless. And lonely.

He takes his clothes off, shifts, and runs through the preserve to the cemetery. He knows where his family is buried, to the east of the cemetery, and he avoids it entirely. He feels unholy to go anywhere near the east, he doesn't deserve the reprieve of crying over their graves. It's been too long. So, he searches for the Sheriff's marked grave. He may have looked for hours but does not come across a "Noah Stilinski". The rain shows no sign of stopping, the evening has turned into night, and the cold is slowly seeping through, so he decides to go back to the mansion, maybe resume his search during daylight, when he hears footsteps. Distant, heavy, slow footsteps.

He probably shouldn't but he is curious enough to move through the trees to get to the sound. From where he is moving furtively, he can only see a silhouette in the night, back facing him. He can't sniff out the person from this distance, with the smell of rain and earth rising all around him. He thinks about leaving but finds himself moving closer still, he can't see the person, but he has a gut feeling. He knows. He knows that the tombstone that the person is facing belongs to Noah Stilinski, and the man standing with his hands in his pockets, looking bigger and taller than he remembers, is Stiles.

He doesn't realise what he is doing until he's moving visibly closer and Stiles turns his head abruptly, lets a small shriek escape, and bolts. Just tears off out of the cemetery and into the streets, with Derek running after him and he opens his mouth to call out to Stiles and it finally registers. He's in his wolf form. And running after Stiles in a full-shift, out on the streets is only going to make matters worse. He considers shifting back for a moment but a naked Derek isn't going to cause any less of a terror for Stiles so he lets him run. Hears the sound of his old jeep rumble and turns back on his heel.

He stops by the Sheriff's grave, sees the full, unopened bottle of whiskey placed against his tombstone, and sniffs out the air. Beneath the dirt and rain, it smells acrid like grief and melancholy, but there's also a faint whiff of something underneath, of Stiles but not the way he smelt as a teenager, not as intense and vivid, but deeper, milder. He lies on the soil, feels the rain wash over his fur until the scent dissipates.

By the time he gets back to the mansion, he finds 8 missed calls and 3 texts from Scott. He knows what it's about so he calls him back.

 **Hello? Derek?**

 _Hmm..._

 **Stiles said he was chased by an animal. Said he didn't get a good look at it but it looked like a wolf. Was that you or should I be-?**

 _I didn't chase him._

 _ **...**_

 _Yeah, it was me._

There's a rustle against the telephone, sound of Scott murmuring "Positive" to someone and he can hear Stiles cuss. After all these years, the first sounds he hears out of Stiles mouth is a whole lot of cussing, something about fucking werewolves, goddamn pricks, and shoving mountain ash up somebody's arse, and he thinks that somebody is him, but Scott's moving away, there's a sound of a door closing and silence.

 **Yeah, he's just… sorry bout that… he's a little shaken. He's back for the night. Surprise visit. I convinced him to sleep over and leave in the morning. You wanna come over to my place?**

 _No._

 **What?! You sure?**

Why does Scott sound so surprised? What is Derek going to do, show up at his place and see Stiles and then… what? He's got nothing to say to the kid.

 _Yeah. I got… stuff._

 **What kind of stuff, Derek?**

 _Scott—_

 **He hasn't been here in years, Derek. Years.** _ **You**_ **haven't been here in years. You obviously tracked him down earlier and now what… you gonna bail again?**

 _I didn't track him down. I was there to pay my respects to the Sheriff. I didn't mean to…_

 **It doesn't matter. Look, Derek, he left permanently okay? Never to return again. And I get that... I get that he has a life in New York and he needs this but he doesn't... he doesn't even call, Derek. And I can't deal. I just think that maybe if you dropped by, we can convince him you know? He'll see that he still has us. He's not alone.**

 _I've got stuff to do, I told you, Scott. And if you can't change his mind, I doubt I could. So... I guess I'll talk to you later._

He cancels the call before he can hear Scott try and argue. He wants to see Stiles, that much he can admit to himself. He wants to know what he has made of himself, what's life like in New York for him, if he's doing okay. But he doesn't think the conversation would be as easy as that. And he has no desire to go over, feeling absolutely out of place, trying to painfully have a small talk with someone who doesn't seem to want to be there. So, he doesn't. He goes to bed early.

But it bothers him for weeks after, that Stiles would just randomly show up one night when he hasn't paid a visit or kept in touch with the pack in years. He's arranging the tool box after trying and failing to fix the plumbing system in the wrecked kitchen and the nagging thought creeps back that he just loses his patience and texts Stiles old number. If he's using the number, he might get an answer. If he isn't, then well, at least he can put his curiosity to rest by claiming that this whole situation is out of his control.

 _You lied to Scott._

No reply. Stiles must have changed his phone number when he left. Derek calls the local plumber and waits for him to arrive. It takes six hours to fix the problem merely in the kitchen and Derek realises he's in over his head, that he has to hire people to help him repair the house. He can't do this on his own. As he's paying off the plumber, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

 **about?**

 _About never coming down to Beacon Hills._

After 12 minutes of staring at his phone, waiting for an answer, he sends another text.

 _You come back to see your dad every year. You just don't stay long enough to see everyone else._

 **yeah so? i wouldnt have had to if it werent for some asshole werewolf scaring the crap outta me**

 _I wasn't trying to scare you._

 **wow what a thoughtful eloquent apology**

 _I didn't think you wouldn't recognise_ me.

 **uh if i recall this right, the last i saw you for more than a hot second you were gonna die then you turned into a fucking wolf which nobody's ever seen happen, mind you, and then you went on that trip with scott writing werewolf peace treaties or whatever the fuck you did and when you came back, you fucking left the next day. and what, it's been more than five years since? so i'm supposed to recognise your wolfed out ass how?**

 _How did Scott not find out that you were lying?_

 **wolfie senses dont work via text**

 _Why? He's family to you._

 **wtf does it matter to you?**

And Stiles is right. It's none of his business that Stiles refuses to see Scott or Mrs McCall or anybody else when he visits his father's grave. If it weren't for Derek, he wouldn't have had to run to Scott. He basically forced Stiles to see Scott before he was ready albeit unintentionally. It shouldn't matter to Derek why Stiles wouldn't stay a minute longer than he must, what severed his bond with Scott, it isn't his place to interrogate Stiles. So, he doesn't reply.

Over the next few days, Derek hires five men and a woman to rebuild the mansion. He spends all of his days overseeing and helping with the task at hand. The workers seemed to be pretty impressed with how strong and efficient Derek can be as long as they give him specific directions. For the most part, they make him carry bricks and heavy machinery, nail down wood, break down barely standing walls, and between the seven of them, work seems to be going smoothly.

Derek lifts a brick trolley filled with shattered wood, charred bricks, broken counter, and other unsalvageable remnants of the mansion and climbs down the creaking porch steps when he absently recalls the day he got arrested. Right here, with his sister's body buried at the side of his house. The body has since been excavated and buried along with his family in the east side of the cemetery, a large expanse of land reserved for generations, just for the Hales.

He recalls the fury he had to swallow, the utter hopelessness of watching police officers swarm near the burial site, him sitting at the back of the cruiser with a teenage punk who thinks he's the next fucking Sherlock Holmes leaning close to Derek's face and exclaiming, "Okay, just so you know, I'm not afraid of you."

But he was reeking of anxiety and fear that Derek thought even a human could tell how fucking afraid Stiles was. If his hands weren't cuffed, he'd like to think that he would have torn Stiles' face off. But he knows he wouldn't have. Because even then, through the haze of wrath and grief and self-preservation, he had enough presence of mind to look at Stiles and see a child. Because that was who Stiles was. A child. Before he was thrown into this supernatural mess and had been forced to grow up.

He recalls staring at the back of the Sheriff's head as he drove them to the station. He wondered if the Sheriff recognised him, from back when he was a young deputy, and he handled the arson case. He accompanied Laura and Derek to the station for questioning, he placed a scratchy blanket around Derek and gave Laura his jacket, gave them something to drink, and he sighed so deeply when he said how sorry he was that Derek had lost his family. Sitting at the back of the cruiser, he wondered if the Sheriff still saw him, the young, grieving Derek, if he could ever look him in the eye and accuse him of murdering the very sister he was clutching at and weeping against the whole time they were at the station.

Derek asked Scott during one of the dinners, why he didn't inform him when the Sheriff passed away.

Scott said, "I thought Stiles would have. I mean… I know he was talking to you. Even after I stopped. I didn't think he wouldn't tell."

Derek pulls out his phone and asks Stiles straight.

 _Why didn't you call me when your dad passed away?_

 **jesus do you ever stop? what difference would it have made?**

 _I would have come back._

 **like hell you would.**

 _You don't know that._

 **actually i do. cause in the 2 years i texted you you never once replied. so no derek i have reasons to assume you dont give a shit. you wouldnt have taken the time of the day to grace me with a response let alone fucking come back**

Stiles only ever sent him pictures of other people, of moments when they were all together and happy. Derek didn't think he had to reply to that. What was he supposed to say? Glad to see that everyone's safe and happy without him? There was no reason to text Stiles back but had he told him he lost his father, that... would have been different. That isn't a mere affirmation that the pack is thriving without him. That is a call of need that Derek would have attended. And no matter where he was, he would have showed up. But he doesn't think he has to explain himself to anyone, so he doesn't.

That night, when he wakes up at 3.17 am to use the toilet, he sees a text from Stiles.

 **yeah that's what i thought. classic. have a good fucking life and lose my number**


	6. all the difficult hours and minutes

_All the difficult hours and minutes  
are like salted plums in a jar.  
Wrinkled, turn steeply into themselves,  
they mutter something the color of sharkfins to the glass.  
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.  
First the jar holds the _umeboshi _, then the rice does._

-Jane Hirshfield

Derek stops by the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine for Thanksgiving at the McCalls. He's feeling anxious about the ordeal; he tries to contain the weird feeling of dread, presses his lips tightly and rubs the back of his hand along his jawline as he looks at wine collections. Scott's pack would be there. And Mrs McCall has somehow managed to force Stiles' hand into coming back for the weekend. He hasn't texted Stiles since he was practically told to fuck off, so he can't imagine how awkward it would be to sit in the same room as Stiles. He wonders if Stiles spoke to Scott about it, about Derek's odd pattern of texting out of the blue. He doubts it, given that Scott himself can hardly get Stiles to talk about anything beyond, "I'm okay. Yeah, things are fine. Lydia's well. Really busy at school. I'll have to call you back. Take care, send my love to your mum."

Derek arrives a couple of hours early because arriving fashionably late will be even more awkward. Everyone would turn and look at him as he walks through that door. Everyone will have to get up and greet him. So, no. He's there by early evening and he offers to help Mrs McCall cook.

It makes her smile that wide, warm smile, almost similar to Scott's but more maternal, and she says over her shoulders to Scott who's seated on the kitchen counter, texting Kira , "Son, pack up and leave. I'm trading you for Derek. At least he helps."

Which earns a disgruntled noise from Scott and a small smile from Derek. He is so grateful for Scott's mum. How she tries to make Derek feel at home, how she lets him adjust in his own time.

Derek's checking the potatoes in the oven when the pack comes over, one by one. They're to have an early dinner at McCall's before heading home to celebrate with their own families. Somewhere around 7.10 pm, all the werewolves in the house perk up to the sound of a familiar Jeep rumbling towards the house.

Scott immediately gets off the couch where he is talking to Liam with Kira tucked under his arm, and barrels to the front door. Derek stays in the kitchen, finding something to busy himself with. He offers to carve the chicken and Melissa has a knowing look on her face, but wordlessly lets him. She walks out of the kitchen to greet Stiles. And Lydia by the sound of it. They came together. Why does this surprise Derek, he has no idea. Well, he's not exactly surprised when he really thinks about it. Why wouldn't they come together? But it makes him feel queasy anyway.

Dinner is loud and mostly joyful. Everyone's eating and talking and Mrs McCall asks Stiles and Lydia about being in New York. Derek always assumed Stiles would go into law enforcement like his father but apparently he's had enough of that life. He's a year from graduating with a degree in Electrical Engineering. He says he likes how alive the city is even in the quiet of the night, how he has finally perfected his mother's recipe of apple pecan pie, he might make one for Mrs McCall someday. Except for the terse nod and hello when Derek first emerged from the kitchen, Stiles hasn't even turned to look in his direction and Derek thinks maybe that's better for him too. But he's not tuning in to anyone's conversation but Scott's and Stiles' and Mrs McCall's.

The pack leave one by one, not wanting to miss dinner with their own family, and Derek carries their plates to the kitchen to wash.

He hears Lydia nudge Stiles and mutter, "I gotta go too, see my mum. You'll be okay here?"

"Yeah, yeah I'll be fine. Run along."

Lydia clears her throat and whispers in his ear, "I know I talked you into this, but you don't have to if you aren't ready. You can come home with me."

Scott interjects half-smiling, half-exasperated, "Why can I hear you trying to take Stiles away from me?"

"Because you have no respect for privacy?" Lydia snarks.

Stiles snorts. "No, I'm good, Lyds. You go ahead."

He holds the side of her head and kisses her on the temple and she grabs his hand and kisses his palm.

"Call me if you need me," Lydia says, looking into his eyes.

"I won't but if I do, I will."

With that, Lydia bids farewell and it's just Scott, Stiles, Mrs McCall and Derek.

Nobody else other than Lydia and Kira had a glass of wine, because werewolves can't get drunk and Mrs McCall was too busy playing hostess. So, Derek grabs her a full glass of wine and goes to sit with her in the kitchen as she cleans, while Scott and Stiles play video game in the living room.

He listens to Mrs McCall talk about the rising price of vegetables, about this new florist shop opening next to the hospital, a patient of hers, a 10 year old boy, who told her a knock knock joke that she found really funny. He thinks maybe it's alright, whatever this night has come to, he got to have this. Someone who talks to him about mundane things, this normalcy. It feels so good to listen to things that aren't about the nine kinds of crazy that Beacon Hills has to offer.

And when Mrs McCall has cleaned up for the night, had her share of wine, and was ready to go to bed, Derek grabs his jacket to leave.

He walks into the living room to drop a hasty goodbye when Scott protests him leaving so early.

"It's 11 something. Hardly early," Derek mumbles.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles calls.

Derek is surprised by how casually he looks over when he knows his heart beat skyrocketed for a second there, it makes him really nervous to be around Stiles, he feels unwanted and intrusive. And Scott obviously picks up on it as he opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles beats him to it.

"Sit your ass down, will you? I wanna hear all about your trip across the world," Stiles says nonchalantly without sparing him a glance.

He adds, "After I kick Scott's ass," and proceeds to hit the play button aggressively before Scott's even grabbed his console.

They play a few rounds before Scott gets up to leave, talking about meeting Kira's parents for supper, and Derek hears the tick in his heartbeat, but doesn't call out on his lie. He's too tired. He just wants the night to end. Scott grabs his phone and keys and Derek waits for his bike to rip off down the road before he gets up.

"I should get going too," Derek says.

"Sit down for fuck's sake," Stiles mutters tiredly.

Derek has half a mind to flip him off and walk out anyway cause who the fuck does Stiles think he is, ordering him around like that. But he sits anyway. Even if he huffs out a breath and clenches his jaw, in a way that is so Derek when he's annoyed.

Stiles leans his elbows on his knees, runs his hand over his face, all the way up to his hair, before saying, "Look, I don't regret anything I said to you. I stand by it. It's none of your business what's going on with me and Scott. Or that my dad's - but I do think I owe you an apology. Not for what I said, but how I said it. I didn't explain my side of the story. Not that I should need to, but still—"

"Careful, don't bust a blood vessel," Derek mumbles.

"What? What was that? Did you just-" Stiles asks with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Derek offers, trying to pacify, "I'm just saying you don't... owe me an apology, I mean. Or an explanation. Me or Scott or anyone. You don't owe anyone anything."

"Damn right I don't."

They're quiet for a few long seconds before Derek asks, "Is that all?"

He moves to get up when Stiles speaks again.

"Why did you ask me that day about my dad? Out of nowhere."

Derek considers the question for a moment, meets Stiles' eyes, the way he's squinting at Derek like he's assessing Derek's intentions.

"It wasn't really out of nowhere. I've been wondering since I- I asked Scott why he didn't tell me, he said he assumed you would have... informed. So, I guess I just wanted to know. From you."

Stiles turns his body to face Derek now, looking at Derek where he's perched at the end of the couch.

"You're telling me you would have come back if I told you then?"

"Yes," Derek says without hesitation.

"Really now? You really think so. Like you sincerely believe that?"

"I _know_ I would have," Derek says, determined now.

"And if I had wolfie super hearing right now, I won't hear a lie in that? You would have cut short your vacation at the paradise with your girlfriend and showed up?"

"Stiles," Derek huffs, exasperated. "I wasn't on a vacation. But yes, I'm telling you I would have."

"Why?" Stiles' voice is quiet now, uncertain.

"Why would I not?"

"Because what the fuck, Derek? You didn't give a shit before, why would you suddenly-"

"It's not the same, Stiles."

"How so?"

"You didn't—all the other time, you didn't need me around."

Something about that riles Stiles up because Derek sees the moment when Stiles' eyes turn dark again.

"And how the fuck do you know that?"

Derek has no answers to that. He just looks away.

"No, actually –why on earth would I need _you_ when my father died? What makes you think you being here would have done any good for me? When you weren't here for anything else before."

"Because I know what it's like to lose everything, Stiles," Derek answers, his voice slightly raised.

He surprises himself with the sudden urge he feels to prove Stiles wrong and Stiles… well, he looks surprised too.

Derek continues, "You can tell me that you don't need me. Ever. That's fine. But if anyone here gets what it's like to lose everything, your family and home and purpose and and—and your fucking mind, to run away because there's nothing left here, nothing makes sense... you know nobody else gets that. Not the way I do. You can't deny it. And yeah, you don't _need_ me to show up when that happened. But I'm just saying I would have wanted to. Call me selfish but maybe- I don't know maybe I just—,"

Derek breathes before adding calmly, "Maybe _I_ needed to. I needed a reason to come back. I kept running cause I had nothing left here and if you had called, I would have had something to come back for is all."

Stiles' face has gone red and he looks flustered and… sad. He just hangs his head and exhales deeply.

"You had the pack," Stiles says softly.

"They didn't need me."

"You don't know that."

"I do. It's why I never replied your texts. Cause all you did was send me pictures, and I—I appreciate that. It was a relief to see everyone safe and together. But it was just... another reaffirmation that I have nothing to bring to the table. Scott is a good Alpha. He knows what he's doing. And I had to find what it was that I needed to do."

Stiles is quiet for a long time. Derek starts to fidget before Stiles speaks again.

"Do we still have wine?"

"Yeah. I'll go get it."

He returns with a glass of wine and another filled with apple juice.

"What's that?" Stiles asks as he takes the wine carefully.

"Apple juice."

Stiles snorts.

"I can't get drunk, so I'd rather save the wine for someone who could."

"How noble."

Derek drifts off for a moment, thinking about the work set out for him tomorrow at the Hale mansion. They're finally getting started on the floor above.

"Did you find it?" Stiles asks, breaking his reverie.

"...what?"

"Whatever you were looking for."

"I can name at least 20 places with the best prime steaks off the top of my head."

From the look on Stiles's face, he absolutely does not expect that and after a beat of utter silence, he bursts into laughter. And Derek chuckles too. It has been a long time, just lounging around, talking to Stiles. Well, maybe it has never happened like this. They've never done this, not without discussing the pack or some case. And it's nice.

"I'm guessing that wasn't what you were looking for?" Stiles asks, still smiling.

"Yeah, but it isn't like I could possibly regret that."

"Well, it isn't exactly a mis-steak then." Stiles adds, eyes still laughing, "Get it get it?"

It takes Derek a while to register, he sees Stiles mumble "mistake as in you know... mis- steak" and when he does get it, he groans loudly. That makes Stiles laugh even harder and Derek doesn't quite mind it.

Stiles rubs at his eyes and says, "Jesus, it's been a while."

"What has?"

"This. Just laughing, I guess. Not that I don't cause you know- Lydia really tries to make me, but… you get what I mean?"

Derek nods. After the fire, Laura used to try too. And sometimes, he'd laugh just to make her feel better. But it didn't really make him feel anything at all within. It was just a sound and a gesture, no mirth.

"But seriously though, what are you looking for, Derek? What do you need?"

"Go ahead and give me an existential crisis, why don't you?" Derek says, still avoiding the question.

"Well, you've been away for years and now you're back. I'm guessing you found something along the way."

"Not really. I just gave up looking. I don't think I have the answers, Stiles."

"I don't think I do either," Stiles confesses quietly. "New York is great and all. I need to be there, I'm better off there. But it always feels... temporary. And I'm still waiting to figure out what I'm gonna do after. You know?"

"You don't need the answers now. Do it for as long as it feels like the right thing. Figure out the rest later."

Stiles nods to himself, finishes off his glass of wine, and says, "Scott told me you're rebuilding your house. Tell me all about that."

And Derek does, all through the night.


	7. dwindling

_"when the phone rings_

 _I too would like to hear words_

 _that might ease_

 _some of this."_

― Charles Bukowski

When Derek wakes in the morning, Stiles is in deep sleep, snoring softly with his face pressed against the cushion. Derek was asleep against his end of the couch too until he heard Scott walk in and drop his keys on the table. He gets up to leave when Scott asks him to stay for breakfast. He looks over at Stiles, back at Scott, and he thinks he really wants to, but somehow the morning light would have dissipated whatever harmony they had built in the dead of the night and he didn't want to stick around to see the indifference in Stiles' eyes again, the way he refused to look at Derek during dinner the night before. So, he insists on leaving, telling Scott about the work he had set out for the morning. Scott looks disappointed and that makes something in Derek twist. Scott isn't his alpha. It doesn't matter what Scott thinks of him. But it still makes him uncomfortable.

Life continues quietly, with the steady fatigue from work and a dull, everpresent thrum of loneliness that puts him to sleep each night. He reads sometimes, he works a lot, he runs through the preserve, he depends on some sort of mental or physical activity to cope all through the day until he's wrecked enough to fall asleep at night. If he wakes up in the middle of the night after a fitful rest and curls into himself, staring at the wall and tuning in to the sound of the pipes and the neighbours, no one is there to call him out on his bullshit. Until he does so himself. This is what running away is. Persisting a day at a time, distracting himself from the living.

After a long while, he wishes he took Braeden up on her offer and left with her. He wishes she had her hands on him, anyway possible, wolf or human form. Just the comfort of human touch. A hug, a pat on the back, whatever. He thought he was way above such petty human comforts given the years he has lived without a family. But now that he has flushed out his grief, he is back to functioning like a person and that means needing other people.

So, when Stiles sends him a picture of early Christmas decorations and lights in the streets after months of no contact, Derek calls him. He doesn't know what got into him, but it is 9.47 pm, he is hungry but has no appetite for food, and it's way too cold and quiet for his liking and he just isn't in his right mind.

He pulls the phone away from his ear to cancel the call after the third ring only to hear a distant murmur of

 _Hello? Derek?_

 **Stiles… hey.**

 _Please tell me nobody's dying in Beacon Hills or I swear—_

 **No no. No such thing. Everyone's fine.**

 _Okaaayy… Then… this is a surprise._

 **Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just… You're probably busy. I should hang up—**

 _You wanna die?_

 **…what?**

 _If you wanna die, try and hang up on me._

Derek scoffs in retaliation but doesn't hang up. They're both quiet for a while. Derek can hear half-broken, distant Christmas tunes and people and footsteps.

 **What are you doing, Stiles?**

 _Out, looking for a Christmas gift for Lydia._

Derek feels more and more awkward as the silence stretches.

 **I'm gonna let you do that, okay?**

 _Derek…_

He hears an exasperated sigh.

 **I'll talk to you some other time…**

He's met with silence again and he has no idea how to navigate this situation. It was a stupid, impulsive decision to call.

 _Here we go again,_ Stiles mutters.

 **What do you mean?**

 _Nothing… So, you called me just to ask me what I'm doing?_

 **No.**

 _Then?_

 **I didn't mean to call.**

 _You hit the call button accidentally, huh?_

Stiles sounds… off. Derek doesn't know what he's doing wrong, but he can almost feel Stiles' walls coming up and he hates that.

 **No. I did want to call, but now's not the time is all. You're shopping and I'm… sleepy. It's been a long day.**

 _So if I called tomorrow, when I'm not shopping and you're not sleepy, you'll say more than two words?_

 **I'm saying more than two words right now.**

 _You're saying nothing, Derek._

 **I don't know what that means.**

 _Whatever, man._

It doesn't sound as annoyed or hostile as Derek expected it to. Stiles just sounds tired. He tunes in to the background noise and he hears a bell chime and someone saying "Welcome" chirpily on the other end, and muffled _on the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me… 5 golden rings, 4 calling birds…_

 **Hey, Stiles?**

 _Hmmm…_

 **I'll call you tomorrow. I promise.**

 _Good night, Derek._

 **Good night.**


	8. wish you were here

_I wish I was a photograph_

 _you carried like a future in your back pocket_

 _I wish I was that face you show to strangers_

 _when they ask you where you come from_

 _I wish I was that someone that you come from_

 _every time you get there_

 _and when you get there_

 _I wish I was that someone who got phone calls_

 _and postcards saying_

 _"wish you were here."_

\- Andrea Gibson, Photograph

Derek feels like he's been holding his breath the whole day. He tries to pay attention to Dana, the woman he hired for the construction, talk about the room upstairs, something about needing materials, and he says yes to everything she asks because he just can't deal with this today. He goes back to the loft early, makes an elaborate meal for himself but only eats a small portion of it, goes grocery shopping after just to prove to himself that he is functional, cleans the loft and washes the toilet, and lies in bed till 10 pm before he finally picks up his phone and stares at it for another 12 minutes, willing himself to make the call. What was he thinking, promising he'd call? But then again, Stiles didn't really think he would anyway. So, he would expect Derek's inaction more than him keeping the promise. But that makes him feel queasy. He doesn't want to disappoint anyone anymore.

Scott used to call him for dinner every week, but after a dozen phone calls that ended with Derek making up excuses to not go, Scott just said, "Look, man. You have a place at our table anytime you want to come. That's all I'm gonna say. But I won't be bugging you about it anymore. If and when you feel like it."

It made him feel bad, and he refuses to feel that way again, proving to both Stiles and Scott that just because he's here in Beacon Hills, doesn't mean he wants to be here. He doesn't know what he wants, where he needs to be, but he does want Scott and Stiles and Mrs McCall in his life. They're all he's got left after all.

He takes a deep breath and hits call. He tells himself that he'll try once. Until it goes to voice mail. Which seems highly probable since it's the sixth ring and no one's picking up. He doesn't know if that is relieving or disappointing. But Stiles picks up right as he wonders, sounds breathless and sleep-rough.

 _Hello?_

 **...**

(yawns) _Derek?_

 **Shit, were you sleeping?**

 _Not anymore._

 **I… Sorry—Go back to bed.**

 _No._

 **Hmmm?**

 _Talk._

 **About?**

 _I don't know. Just talk._

 **But you were sleeping and I shouldn't have—**

 _I didn't believe that you would call. Good that you did. Restored faith in your dumb werewolf ass._

 **Well, should have had more faith than that.**

 _Nah. Haven't given me a reason to._

Derek… Well, he's at a loss for words. It stings, but it's also annoying and… oddly amusing.

 _How's the construction going?_

 **Slow. But we're done with the ground floor for the most parts, I guess. I don't know.**

 _Hmmm…How do you feel about that?_

 **About what?**

 _Your mansion. Repairing it._

 **Not as glad as I thought I'd be.**

 _Why?_

 **Repairing it doesn't change anything. It's still not… it doesn't make sense but it's just…**

 _Still not home?_

Derek breathes. Finally. He didn't want to have to say it himself. It made him feel guilty.

 **Yeah.**

 _Home is the people. Not the place._

 **You sound like Laura.**

 _Then I bet Laura sounded like an incredibly intelligent and charming person._

Derek scoffs at that. And he hears Stiles snort in amusement.

 **She was.**

 _Yeah. I remember her a little._

 **What do you mean?**

 _I used to sell lemonade with Scott and my mum for an entire month to make enough money to buy a playstation. Laura used to drop by almost every day with her one other friend. She must have been a senior high._

 **She never mentioned it.**

 _We used to argue over Harry Potter. She said Hufflepuff was the shit. I thought it was Gryffindor. I don't remember much else. But now that I'm older, I'm inclined to see things her way._

Derek is surprised by this revelation. He can imagine it. And it feels bittersweet, a throbbing feeling, like pressing on a bruise, like uncovering a picture of Laura from a pile of clothes. He misses her terribly all over again.

 _Derek?_

 **Hmmm? Sorry. I'm listening.**

 _Sorry for bringing that up._

 **No, don't be. I haven't spoken about her in a long time.**

 _Yeah, I guessed that much. Which is why I shouldn't have brought back old memories._

 **It's fine. I miss her is all.**

 _Yeah. I know what that feels like._

 **You miss your dad.**

He didn't phrase it as a question because he doesn't think there would ever be a moment in Stiles' life when he wouldn't miss his dad.

 _I do. Which is why I let Officer Brown help me sell the house off. And left to New York. Cause it wasn't home anymore. I lived all my life in that house. My mum and dad moved there when they got married. I was born and raised there. Celebrated my birthdays there. I broke my arm there. Discovered my love for fries and ice cream there. Played with Scott, pined over Lydia, grieved over my mum… then my dad. But it wasn't for me anymore, Derek._

Derek listens quietly to the gentle, sleepy murmur of Stiles' voice. He seems a little more uninhibited tonight.

 _It was all too much and I had to get away. I thought… I thought Scott would understand. I thought he'd come with._

 **He still has a home here.**

 _Yeah. And it's stupid, I know. Awful to even consider it. But I guess I hated him for a while that he still had a home when I didn't. If home were people, then…then… I wasn't his people. Cause I'm not there. But he still goes on._

 **Because he has to. For everyone else's sake in Beacon Hills. He has a town to look after, Stiles. And his mum and a pack.**

 _I know. That's why I said it's stupid. I was being stupid and stubborn, but I couldn't shake away that thought._

 **I understand. Just so you know, it isn't the same without you here. And without the Sheriff.**

 _… how so?_

 **It just isn't. It's less of a home for everyone.**

Stiles doesn't say anything and Derek gets nervous, wondering if he made Stiles feel more guilty.

 **But that doesn't mean you have an obligation to come back.**

 _I know._

 **I was just saying you are missed by Scott. More than you realise.**

 _Only Scott?_

Derek's heart picks up pace and he can't tell why. Suddenly, without a warning or his consent, he really does miss Stiles. He misses the smart-mouthed teenage buzz of energy that used to whirl around his loft, stealing food from his fridge. He misses Stiles' old house, the room he used to climb into through the window, the living room where he once sat down all night cracking a case with Stiles and the Sheriff, he misses Scott's gummy smile and warm eyes, Mrs McCall's stories and hugs, Boyd's wry humour and quiet laugh, Erica's kindness and Isaac's loyalty, Allison's fierce determination behind her dimpled smile, Lydia's intelligent, sarcastic quips, Laura and Cora and mum and dad and he misses everything and everyone all at once, and he is inside and out, experiencing this longing while also observing himself having this moment.

 **Everyone. You are missed by everyone.**

 _I miss… everyone too. But I can't come back._

 **That's alright. You have a home in New York with Lydia.**

 _I'm not sure if I can call this a home but yeah, she's here. And I can trust her to be here. She's the only person who has stayed so long._

Derek deserves that. He didn't stay.

 **I'm sorry I left.**

 _No, you're not. And you shouldn't be. You needed that. Just like I need this._

 **Yeah, I guess. What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry I wasn't here when you… when things—**

 _Again, not your fault._

 **I...but I just… I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just sorry.**

 _That's your default state._

 _ **…**_

 _Look, Derek. Nobody begrudges you for leaving. We always understood. It's just… I wish you called. Earlier, I mean. All those years back. I wish you kept in touch with us. I thought you didn't care whether we lived or died. But now I get it. I'm doing the same now so I'm sorry for being angry at you._

 **I do care. And I did. Even when I was away.**

 _I do too. Which is the only reason I'm saying this so don't get me wrong, but I think-_

 _ **…**_

 _(sigh) Never mind._

 **What? Stiles?**

 _It's just… home is not the house you build to ease your obsessive guilt, Derek. You're not building that mansion for any purpose, for anyone. You're just doing it because you think you should, like you must because you said so to Laura. I mean, I could be wrong but that's what I gathered from our conversation during Thanksgiving. And I feel like you're going to find yourself lost and depressed again if you wait till you finish rebuilding it to figure this out. You need to find something for yourself, Derek. You're holding on to the past._

 **I don't know how not to.**

 _Me too. Maybe we'll figure this out together?_

For the first time in months, Derek smiles genuinely. The last person to say that to him was Laura. She would have liked Stiles if she could meet him now. Maybe they _will_ figure it out together. He hopes so, at least.

 **Okay.**


	9. untie the knot in your heart

_Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently_  
 _we have had our difficulties and there are many things_  
 _I want to ask you._  
 _I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,_  
 _years later, in the chlorinated pool._  
 _I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have_  
 _these luxuries._  
 _I have told you where I'm coming from, so put it together._

\- Richard Siken

 _What do you want for Christmas?_

 **What?**

It's 7.25 pm. Derek is wrapping up work at the mansion, locking the doors as the men he hired cleant up the front porch when Stiles calls him. He is weary in a way that is far deeper than physical exhaustion, but his heart skips a beat nonetheless because this is the first time in forever that Stiles has made the effort to call him. So far, it has only been Derek calling him the past two days.

 _You heard me. What do you want, sourwolf?_

 **You—you're coming back?**

 _Yeah, dude. And I know I am gift enough for all of you but what do you want? Quick. I need to get this done. I have my finals tomorrow._

 **Nothing. I'm good.**

 _Derek, fucking—dude, just—what do you want?_

 **I can't think of anything, Stiles.**

 _*sigh*. I just spent three hours shopping for Lydia and I'm tired, man. You want… sweater? How about a sweater? A new leather jacket?_

 **No. I like mine.**

 _It's old and like… torn all over._

 **It's my dad's.**

 _Oh._

…

 _Sorry. Didn't mean to—you know…_

 **It's fine.**

 _Sweater then? Or furniture for the mansion? I can't afford much. Maybe some nice decorative thing? A clock? I saw this cute little owl clock at the-_

 **Stiles, I don't need anything.**

 _…yeah, that's your problem, ain't it?_

Stiles sounds frustrated and Derek gets it. He's not making Stiles' life easier by answering the question, but that's only because he can't think of anything. But it sounds like Stiles is antagonized by a little more than a gift and that's starting to grate on Derek's nerves.

 **I don't know what that means. Just go home, Stiles. I'm not expecting a gift. It's fine.**

 _What do you expect then?_

 **Huh?**

 _You don't expect gifts for Christmas. You don't need anything. You_ never _need anything—_

 **Are you angry at me?**

 _No—I mean yeah, I am. Cause I'm trying to be nice and you're being an ass._

 **How the hell am I being an ass?**

Derek raises his voice because he's done with Stiles passive aggressiveness. He thought they made progress the past two days, but Stiles is still annoyed about something he doesn't ever address.

 _You just are._

 **I don't know what your problem is, Stiles.**

 _You, Derek. You are a problem right now. Mr. I-don't-need-anyone-or-anything! Sure, go live like an island, why don't you—_

 **What? I didn't even say that.**

 _You didn't have to. I've had years of dealing with your indifference._

 **Stiles, I am going to hang up now before we both say things that we regret.**

 _Why don't you say it for once?! Say what the fuck is on your mind!_

 **I don't think you'd like that.**

 _Well, alright, big shot! Give it a fucking try._

 **You're a hypocrite. You ran away too, but you like to pretend like I am at fault for needing time off. And then you pretend to be the bigger guy and tell me that there's nothing to apologise for when obviously, you're still mad at me. And now, here you are, wanting to do something nice but—but you don't have the courtesy to—I don't know. To talk, to ask nicely. And you wanna lay that blame on me. I know I haven't been around, but I didn't walk around claiming I don't need anyone. That's all you, putting words in my mouth. If you're insecure about your place in—in Scott's life, that's on you. Don't put it on me.**

 _What about you?_

 **What about me?**

 _Where am I in your life?_

 _…_

 _You know what, fuck you. Bye._

And as the call cuts off, he mouths "What the fuck?", staring down at his phone until someone clears their throat and he sees the men walk away with a concerned glance and an awkward wave. For a second, he is so overwhelmed by exasperation that he wants to slam his fist against the nearest pillar and send it crumbling. But he just clenches his fist and feels the sharp sting of pain as his claws dig deep and his palm is wet and sticky with blood.

Derek lays awake at night, tossing and turning. He has half a mind to call Stiles, but he has enough self-respect not to. Yet, a part of him wonders what Stiles is getting at. Why is he so angry at Derek? It makes no sense. Every time they take two steps forward, Stiles drags them three steps back. It's disconcerting and quite frankly, pissing off. He texts Scott instead.

 **Scott, are you awake?**

He immediately gets a phone call from Scott and that makes him groan into his pillow. He doesn't want to pick up, but he'll be inconsiderate if he doesn't.

 **Hello.**

 _Hey, man. What's up?_

 **Nothing. You didn't have to call.**

 _You don't text without a reason, Derek. What's going on?_

 **I think… I think I fought with Stiles.**

 _Huh? How?_

 **Well, he called me today to ask abou—**

 _He called you._

 **Yeah, he called me and he was—**

 _He called you?!_

 **What?**

 _Well, he just… he hasn't called me. He doesn't like phone calls. But okay, whatever. What happened?_

Derek sighs and tells him the whole story. He feels very uncomfortable narrating it, as though he is betraying an unspoken vow by revealing his conversation with Stiles, but he can't stop now.

 **You still there?**

 _Yeah…_

 **So…?**

 _You're really a dimwit._

 **It's my fault again. Great. Enlighten me.**

He runs a hand across his face restlessly. Life with Braeden was so much simpler. They didn't talk all that much about anything personal and it was easy and quiet. Not like Stiles. He's a lot. All the time. All this talking isn't doing Derek any good since he apparently is consistently fucking things up without his knowledge.

 _It's not your fault per say. It's both your fault. You guys suck at communicating._

 **Half the time, I don't understand what he's saying.**

 _Cause you're not listening._

 **What the hell, Scott?**

 _Man, you don't think very highly of yourself. And that… I don't wanna call it self-hatred, but like… you don't see yourself the way Stiles... the way the rest of us see you. So you don't listen when he speaks._

 **What exactly should I be listening to? I don't get it. I do listen to him.**

 _Not when it concerns you._

 _…_

 _Look, you matter to him. To us. And for quite a while, it didn't feel like you reciprocated that feeling. Stiles… he's anxious, alright? He's been anxious for so long, it's now a part of his personality. He's constantly doubting himself. And he needs to hear it, man. Verbally. You don't do that. Reassurances, I mean._

 **I'm talking to him now, aren't I?**

 _Not in a way he needs you to._

 **Well, what about what I need? I'm not his punching bag.**

 _You don't tell anyone what you need either. What do you need, Derek?_

Peace, he thinks. Comfort. To not feel this lonely. To have a family. But also to not have to lie awake being worried about other people. And he thinks that's contradictory, so he doesn't voice it out. He doesn't know what he wants. He just wants this feeling, this mad, swirling, dark feeling in his chest to go away.

 _Derek?_

 **I'm going to bed, Scott. Thanks.**

 _You okay though?_

 **Yeah. Good night.**

 _I don't believe you, but… just know that I'm around._

 _…_

 _Good night._

He ends the call, drops the phone haphazardly on the bedside table and shoves his face into his pillow, hoping he could suffocate the buzzing thoughts in his head. He wants to scream into his pillow, but he thinks he is a little too old for that. For the first time in a long time, he feels tears welling up in his eyes. Fucking Stiles, always getting under his skin.


	10. your reasons why are no good reasons why

_You told me once that you would break my heart._  
 _I asked you not to be such a goddamn_  
 _cliche, but then you left me because part_  
 _of you was still broken. You say some man_

 _pried open the cracks of you, dug holes where_  
 _once there were none, so now you just cannot_  
 _love me how I deserve, and darling, therein_  
 _lies the problem: you can you can you can_

\- Neil Hilborn

Derek has not spoken to Stiles in four days after the last outburst. His own anger has subsided, but he doesn't know how to start a conversation or apologise. If there is anything to apologise for, that is. He still has no idea what set Stiles off that day. He thinks about texting him a number of times, maybe wish him luck for his finals, ask him how the test was, maybe even suggest a small gift that Stiles could afford just as a way to reconcile. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't. But he thinks about Stiles a lot. And he dreams about calling him when he falls asleep because of how much he obsesses over this recent fight. He always wakes up feeling a little more tired and a whole lot grumpier. Until one night, it happens. He dreams of Stiles, but not in the same way he has been dreaming of him thus far.

In his dream, Stiles is wearing a red hoodie, the sort he used to wear as a teenager. He even has the same buzz cut. They're walking in a random mall. It's weird, Derek hasn't even been in a mall in over a year. But that isn't the most important part. He doesn't know what they're talking about, but Derek reaches over to Stiles who is walking on his right, and places his right hand into the pocket of Stiles' hoodie. Stiles is still talking, but nothing is coherent. All Derek remembers is Stiles putting his left hand into the same pocket and holding Derek's hand. It's warm and soft and large, larger than Braeden's hand, seemingly stronger, although Derek thinks in his dream that while Braeden has small hands, she can pack a punch. He wraps his fingers around Stiles', where both their hands are nestled in that pocket. And they keep walking, talking about something. And Derek thinks this is nice. He looks over and he thinks he wants to wrap both his hands around Stiles' slender waist. He feels a soft smile forming on his lips and looks over to see Stiles break out into a grin. _This_. This would be the perfect gift.

He wakes up, still in a euphoric haze. And he looks over at his hand before promptly slipping into a panic attack. _Holy fuck_. What was that? He sits up in bed, breathing hard, pushing away the blanket and the pillow he had been cuddling. It hurts and he can't tell why. Maybe it's the lack of oxygen. Maybe it's his wildly beating heart. Maybe it's the fog in his head, from the slow decline into a depressive episode this past month. Or maybe it's because… he longs for something he has no name for.

No, he has a name for this. He just doesn't dare admit it even to himself. As he counts his breaths, _deep inhale, 8, hold it in, 1 2 3 4, deep exhal 8_ , he thinks "I miss you. I miss you." And goddamnit! He thought he buried this feeling before he left Beacon Hills for once and for all. He thought he talked himself out of feeling this way for a child. Because that was who Stiles was. A child. Sixteen year old, awkward boy with big eyes and a bigger heart.

He first felt a wisp of attraction when he noticed Stiles checking him out. It happens. After all, Stiles was a teenage boy with body image issues looking over Derek's bare back as he pretended to be Miguel and riffled through Stiles' drawer. And it's human to be curious about people who seem to be curious about you. But that was that. And then it happened again that night in the pool with the Kanima. Only that this time, it was less physical and more emotional. He looked over at Stiles as he said "Abomination" and he had never felt as understood since Laura's death. Stiles seemed to react too, staring at him deeply for a moment and Derek couldn't breathe.

He told himself that it will pass. He shoved it deep within, reminded himself that Stiles was a child, the way he was a child when he was with Kate. And Derek isn't Kate, but he was no less broken. He wouldn't even consider starting anything with Stiles, not even playfully. So, he snapped and pushed and pulled and shoved at Stiles until he could convince himself that Stiles was family, like Scott, although more in tune with Derek than Scott was. And he wasn't remotely interested in him. He just cared about him like he cared about Erica and Isaac and Boyd.

He got in a relationship with Jennifer because he felt like he should. If he were with an adult, it would likely give him a clearer perspective about Stiles. Up until Stiles showed up in tears, begging Derek to trust him and despite the relationship he tried to build with Jennifer, despite pretending that he can be normal again, he knew without a doubt that he'd pick Stiles over anyone… and that terrified Derek. When he seized Jennifer by the neck, it was not merely the hurt and betrayal or the righteous anger. It was an overwhelming, unspeakable feeling. Guilt that he was in fact broken, so much so that he could regard Stiles romantically just because Stiles showed him some semblance of human decency and friendship. Panic that he got into another toxic affair with a manipulative psychopath who posed a threat to everyone he cared about. Something must be so wrong with Derek to fall into this same pattern. And paralyzing fear that his fallibility will harm yet another life.

He couldn't look Stiles in the eye and even after defeating the Darach and saving the Sheriff, he couldn't help but be repulsed with himself. And by the time Braeden happened, he had given up. He was lonely and he was hurting and he hated everything. So, why the hell not? She turned out nice enough. Stuck around even when he was supposedly on the verge of death. The last time he thought of needing Stiles, it was when he tasted blood in his mouth as he struggled to breathe, back against the rock and Braeden panicking by his side. He saw Stiles look at him intensely, like he was two seconds away from a breakdown, like he couldn't decide what to do, and as Derek instructed him to go and save Scott, he thought, _you're the reason dying seems like a bad thing to happen to me. I'm going to miss you so much._

When he recovered after defeating Kate, he looked over at Braeden, her eyes watery with relief and he told himself, _this is all too much_. He had to leave before he did something stupid. Stiles was a child and Derek isn't Kate, but he wasn't healthy either… he needed to learn to be a person again. And he couldn't, not with Stiles looking at him like Derek meant something. He needed someone else and Braeden was there and she was kind and she was a lot more than Derek deserved. So, Derek stayed long enough to mediate the territory negotiation between Scott and another pack, and he packed his bags and left. He suppressed that feeling he harboured for Stiles so far down until he forgot its existence. He's good at self-deception. He micro-focused his attention on Braeden and travelling and little, everyday things until he relearnt his impulses. And it isn't that hard; Stiles only sent pictures every few months, reminding Derek that he is not needed in Beacon Hills for the world to continue spinning in its axis. As for his own emotions, Derek is used to numbing his feelings and burying unwanted thoughts. It's a survival skill that has kept him alive so far after all the loss he has faced.

After three years, Stiles is just another kid in his pack. One that he respects and cares about, of course. But not one he'd think of being with. Derek has done too much work, boxing his emotion into an impenetrable wall that he hardly ever thinks of it. But now, with his hand still tingling with the ghost of warmth, the tail of his pleasant dream haunting him, it's all too close to the surface. And he misses Stiles with the same ferocity he missed him all those while back. And Stiles is no longer a child. And Derek hates himself for still wanting.


	11. should have loved a thunderbird instead

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

 _I fancied you'd return the way you said,_  
 _But I grow old and I forget your name._  
 _(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

\- Sylvia Plath

He spends an entire week unsuccessfully distracting himself, working twice as hard and as long in the mansion till the workers felt pressured and annoyed with his insistence. And on days when the heat gets to them and they start shouting at one another about some type of screw over the other, Derek goes home, takes of his clothes, shifts and lays on his side all night, unable to gather the strength to function. It's either work until he drops unconscious or lay awake in bed, or on the floor, staring at the paint in the corners of the wall. He doesn't cook anymore. It's back to take-outs, but he doesn't eat half as much as he used to.

And every time he accidentally lets his mind wander, he's hit with the crippling resentment of knowing that he is and has always been… invested in Stiles. Back then, despite Stiles seeming confused about Derek, despite his heart rate that spiked every time that Derek was near, Stiles was a child and Derek would never… now, he's with Lydia with a life entirely separate from Derek. And the last they spoke, Stiles told him to fuck off. Derek never gets this right. He never gets anything right. He's tired, he hasn't slept in days because he has nightmares when he tries. Being chased, blood in his hands, Nemeton, possessed Stiles, Laura weeping in the corner of the mansion, something. The nightmares never make sense, but they're terrifying nonetheless and he wakes up with a panic attack, claws shredding the sheets, and he'd much rather not try.

Today is one of those days where he pushed a little too hard at work, the workers are disgruntled, and he feels a bone-deep ache that has less to do with manual labour, and more to do with wishing he did not exist. Not kill himself, not like that. He hasn't thought of that in a while. But just not exist. Vanish into thin air, erased into oblivion, something like that. If he breathes too hard, he might just break, he thinks. It's all much too heavy. So, he lays in bed as always, wiping the involuntary tears that slip from the corner of his eyes. He's not crying, it's just his body, giving up, he thinks. And he slowly drifts into a fitful rest when he hears his phone ring. By the time he is pulled back into consciousness, the call had been missed. He sees that it's Scott. And he's contemplating calling back when he gets a text from Scott.

 _stiles isn't coming back 4 xmas. he's talking bout some internship. he's lying. derek, u need 2 talk 2 him. i don't know wat 2 do._

Derek groans and kicks at his sheet. Why the hell has it always got to be him? He almost texts back, **fuck you and fuck him and fuck off.**

But he erases the text, takes a deep breath and replies, **I'll try.**

He calls Braeden instead. Cause he's at _that_ level of exhaustion. He tries twice, but he imagines she's working a case if she isn't picking up and gives up. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, racking his brain for something, anything he can possibly say to Stiles.

 **You have a place in my life. However you want, in whatever capacity. If you still do want, that is.**

He turns off his phone and goes back to sleep. He's too tired to wait around for the shame to kick in.

It kicked in in the morning. When he turned his phone on, found no replies from Stiles, just one from Scott saying _thx._ And 4 missed calls from Braeden. He regrets deeply, grumbling about how much he hates everything, when Braeden calls again.

 **Brae?**

 _What the hell, Derek? I was so worried about you. Are you okay? Where are yo—_

 **I'm okay, I'm okay. I swear. I just called to check on you.**

 _Well, fuck you cause you turned your phone off and you don't really have a great track record of not getting kidnapped and tortured and—_

 **Well, you're the only ex who's alive. So, unless you want revenge for something, I think I'm safe.**

He tries to joke because he wants her to calm down, but even as he is saying it, he feels himself wince. Derek should never be allowed to ever get in a relationship.

 _Ha fucking ha. Not funny, Derek._

 **I know. I'm sorry.**

 _No,_ I'm _sorry. You deserved better people in your life._

 **Wasn't so good at picking them.**

 _It's not on you._

 _…_

 _And I was an excellent choice, by the way. Just putting it out there._

He snorts a little. She was. She really was. And he tells her that.

 _Is that a compliment from Derek Eyebrows Only Hale?_

 **I take it back, you're a horrible choice.**

 _So, tell me. Why did you call?_

 **I told you, to check on you.**

 _We don't have that kind of relationship, Der. You only call when you need something._

 **…I'm sorry. I didn't-**

 _No, no. I didn't mean it in a bad way. Crap. I meant… you're a man of few words. We click like that. And I never call either. It works._

 **…**

 _What's on your mind, Der?_

 **You were right. I was running away. And I still am.**

 _What brought you to this revelation? It wasn't my wise words, I'm sure. Cause if you listened, you'd have figured this out three years back at least._

He hears her scoff and he is filled with fondness for this woman in his life, this unexpected presence, yet she is consistently there for him. Closest thing to a family.

 **You done telling me you said so?**

 _No. Not yet. I get to say it once for every time I really did say so. I have about 173 times left in my quota._

 **Shut up.**

 _Okay, in all seriousness, what was it?_

 **What was what?**

 _What made you figure this out, genius?_

 **Figured out** _ **what**_ **I was running away from.**

 _And?_

 **And… it was—I think…**

 _..._

 **...**

 _Yeah._

 **What does that mean?**

 _I think we both know it was a who, not a what._

 **I don't know what you mean.**

 _You do._

 _ **…**_

 _You're doing it again, Derek. You're running away. I know, alright? I've always known. So, speak to me._

 **How…? *clears throat* How did you-?**

 _How did I know? You looked at him the way I wished you'd look at me. You came close some days, when you're folding my tank tops and we're talking about small, insignificant things. And I thought that was enough for a while. But it was plain to see, you were sitting around, waiting for him to call you home. He never did and you just carried on._

 **I wasn't really waiting for him to call. I knew he wouldn't. I don't know how you got that impression.**

 _Hmmm…Maybe because when we both thought you were dying, I leant over and kissed you and you whispered his name._

That… almost sends Derek spiraling into another panic attack. He doesn't even remember it happening. Maybe he was just asking Braeden to go after Stiles. Maybe she got it wrong. He suggests that much to her.

 _Yeah, maybe. But that's not the point. He was the last thing on your mind when you thought all was gone. And when you looked over from that… that murderous bitch, you looked for him. You only saw me after. And your face crumbled for a second. And I realised what I was to you._

 **Oh God, Braeden. It's not like that. I'm so sorry-**

 _No, nothing to apologise for, Der. I know you loved me, babe. I know you still do. It's just not the kind of love that… it's different. And I love you too. But what we are to each other is not what Stiles is to you. And that is entirely okay._

 **I don't know what to say.**

 _That's okay too. I just wish you'd talk to him about this instead._

 **What?! No.**

 _Why the hell not, Derek? Gimme one good reason…_

 **He's with Lydia. He's in New York. The last time we spoke, he told me to fuck off. I texted him last night and he didn't reply. You want me to keep going?**

 _I hear excuses, yes. Plenty of them. I don't hear reasons._

 **Brae…**

 _No, you listen to me. I am done watching you hate yourself for things you have no control of. Him being with Lydia or in New York, you can't change that. But you_ can _change yourself. Give yourself a fucking chance, goddamnit. What's the worst that could happen?_

 **He could be disgusted by me.**

 _Stiles isn't that kind of asshole and you know that._

 **Yeah, but still…I could lose him… as a friend.**

 _Sounds like you already are._

 ***deep exhale*** **Braeden, you're killing me. I don't know what you expect out of this.**

 _I expect you to fucking try. That's all, Der. Try. If it fails, you'll survive._

 **How do you know that?**

 _Cause I know_ you. _You're the strongest person I know and I've seen a lot._

 **But what if…?**

 _What if what?_

 **What if he… you know?**

 _What if he feels the same?_

 **Yeah. I mean, he's with Lydia and that's selfish…**

 _Oh my god, I want to strangle you right now. That's not on you. He gets to decide. That is all. You let him decide. You're allowed to want, Derek. You're allowed to be happy. It isn't the worst thing in the world if he wants you back. In fact, it's a good thing. The best thing._

Somehow, when Braeden talks, Derek could let himself imagine a better ending. But once he puts down the phone, he thinks he must be fucking stupid to even consider the possibility of Stiles feeling remotely the same about him. It's just Braeden. Braeden gives him hope. But she has no idea what reality is like for Stiles and him. So, he promptly abandons Braeden's advice, takes a long, hot shower, and goes back to work. He just needs to keep going until all this is behind him.


	12. we are breathing river water

_You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him,_  
 _and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling,_  
 _but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist,_  
 _and you feel your heart taking root in your body,_  
 _like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for._  
― Richard Siken

On Christmas Day, Derek goes over to Scott's because he got a phone call from Mrs McCall herself, warning him that great repercussions await if he decides to get out of this. As usual, he arrives early to help her cook. Stiles didn't reply to his text and Scott hasn't heard from him either, so it's safe to say that they wouldn't be seeing Stiles tonight. It doesn't make Derek feel better. He feels… sad. And exhausted. And just…restless. His heart is dysfunctional; he can't calm himself down enough, listening to his heart rapidly thumping against his rib cage. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's just broken. Scott asks him about it subtly, asks if he's nervous about something. He looks away and continues chopping up the salad.

And the day goes on, exhausting and slow, yet numbingly quick. He can't remember what was exchanged between him and the McCalls, can't recall conversations and ingredients that he put in that oven. He could have baked them a shoe for all he knows. That's how blurry everything was, like sitting under water with his eyes open, staring at the dissolving figures above the surface. They even exchanged gifts, but he can't be properly grateful. He smiles, he thinks. He pulls his lips far enough to show his teeth. Perhaps he looked like he was sneering instead. He can't tell. Everything is just a motion, a meaningless gesture. He carries on.

As people start arriving, he stays in the kitchen, wiping everything down. People greet him, he hums and grunts and pulls his mouth into shapes that says Merry Christmas. The wolves can tell that something's wrong, but no one has a death wish for tonight, so no one asks. Mrs McCall just places her hand between his shoulder blades from time to time, as though fettering him to here and now, as though he'd drift away if she weren't careful. He thinks he might. He just wants everything to stop. He can't breathe right today.

As though that isn't painful enough, Stiles does show up. With Lydia. In a cab. He doesn't notice it cause he can only hear his own heart rate at this point. But he hears Scott exclaim his name and his heart goes haywire. His vision swims for a second and he sits down and focuses on breathing. He calls Braeden from the washroom. He whispers, hoping no one else would be disrespectful enough to listen in. But mostly, he listens to her speak. She knows how this goes down, he's had it a few times around her. Usually she just holds him in bed and quietly counts his breathing. Now, she can't. So, she talks about groceries and motels, a book she read, a kind woman next door with two children, the baby was a year and a half, so light and soft and unafraid, bright brown eyes and rosy cheeks and curly hair, how the child laid across her chest, almost dozing off as the woman and Braeden spoke about the scar on Braeden's neck. How the woman told her that she is beautiful nonetheless. And Derek smiles. He agrees. He tells Braeden she is beautiful indeed.

By the time he steps out of the washroom, he feels a little better. He can breathe again. And he can focus on getting his chemosignals under control. He's a born wolf. He has spent all his life hiding his scent. He can do this. When he steps into the dining room, he nods at Stiles. Stiles gets up from the dining table, grabs a small package and hands it over to Derek.

"Merry Christmas, Derek."

"Merry Christmas, Stiles… I did—didn't get you anything."

"That's alright," he smiles a little, pats Derek on his shoulder, and Derek can almost believe that they are alright again.

He gets through the dinner somehow, not really paying attention to what was heaped on his plate, just munching and tuning out conversations. Focusing on breathing. He thinks he will get through this night.

Until Stiles walks to the kitchen to reheat the apple pecan pie he made and he looks over to see Kira holding Lydia's hand in hers, turning it this way and that. And he sees the diamond ring, glimmering, but it doesn't register until Scott says, "Can't believe you're engaged. I mean, we're all so young still."

Lydia quips, "What can I say? I find commitment sexy."

Kira laughs a little and announces, "The two of you are truly made for each other. I can feel it."

"Thanks, love. I feel it too."

"Were you all surprised and teary like in the movies?" Liam asks.

"He spent days looking for this ring, he was constantly out. I should have known something was up. But he knows I'm selective, so I figured he's just shopping for a bag or something, you know? Totally didn't expect this. Best Christmas present ever. Can't be topped."

"Did you or did you not cry?" Mason jokingly asks.

"Have you seen this, Mason? Are you telling me you wouldn't burst in tears if the man of your life is on one knee, giving you this, promising forever, while you're still in your pajamas, looking like the tornado hit you?"

She shoves the diamond-ringed hand at Mason's face for emphasis. He pretends to swoon.

Stiles walks in then and says, "You never look like that, Lyds. That's a grotesque lie. You're one of the cursed ones, you can never _not_ look beautiful. It's black magic."

"Aaaww," Lydia says sweetly as she leans against Stiles waist, where he stands next to her, placing the pie on the table.

And that's when Derek snaps. He needs to get out of here. They're fucking _engaged._ Before he even completes that sentence in his head, all the wolves are looking at him. Goddamnit! They can hear his heart rate, smell his anxiety. All these wretched emotions oozing out. He has no more restraint. Scott was the first to reach out across the table.

"Derek, you okay?"

"I need to go."

"What? Where?"

"I—I forgot something."

"What, Derek?" Scott asks a little urgently.

"Gas. The mansion. Left the gas on."

It's an outright lie, in the company of a pack of wolves. But he thinks only Liam and Scott caught it with how crazy his heart rate is right now.

"The fuck? Dude, I'll come with," Stiles says.

That pushes Derek closer to the brink of another panic attack.

"No", Derek says at the same time that Scott exclaims, "Yes."

Derek looks over at Scott and sees a fierce, determined glint in his eyes.

"Derek shouldn't go alone," Scott says, almost challenging in his tone.

Liam adds, "We should all go with him."

Liam knows Derek's lying and he is expecting that this turn of events will push Derek to confess perhaps. But Derek looks at Scott for a moment and he sees something in Scott soften.

"No, Stiles should go. He'll call us if he needs backup."

And Derek wonders for a second, split between listening to Scott and escaping the house, and punching Scott square in the face for this unwanted mess. By the time the thought dissipates, he is wearing his leather jacket and Stiles is wearing his winter coat and they're frantically navigating through the snow to get to the Black Camaro.

Derek drives away, not bothering to grace Stiles with an answer as he questions what Derek was doing in the mansion? Was he cooking? Doesn't he check these things before he leaves? His werewolf nose wouldn't be able to stand the smell. Stiles will go in and open the windows and turn off the gas. That's the game plan. He shouldn't go alone. Just in case.

Stiles rambles and Derek listens. He knows Stiles is trying hard to not mention the probability of another fire in the mansion. He knows Stiles is anxious too. He doesn't have the strength to tell him it's a lie just then, so he drives through the preserve quietly.

When they reach and Stiles states firmly, "You stay in the car, Derek. I'll go in, okay? It will only be a minute," Derek's resolve breaks.

"I lied."

"You…You what?"

"I lied. There is no gas supply in the mansion. I just needed to get out."

"Duuuude…" Stiles huffs out a breath. "Why didn't you just say so? I was a little scared, you know…"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You okay, Derek?"

"I can't breathe," he admits.

Derek lays his head against the steering wheel, clutching it hard with both hands, hard enough that he is afraid he'd leave a dent. After a moment, he feels Stiles' fingers brush over his right hand and wrap around it. Slowly he pries Derek's hand away and Derek lets go of the tight grip. He still doesn't look up. Then, he feels Stiles' other hand, cold and strong against the nape of his neck, just holding him down. He lets go of Derek's knuckles and rubs the back of his fingers on the side of Derek's face, up and down gently, tucking hair behind his ear. Like he's calming a child down. And Derek… he can't take it. It's all too soft and it makes him yearn for more and he's afraid of acting on his emotion impulsively.

"Stop, Stiles. Don't," he whispers.

"Why?" Stiles sounds just as breathless.

"Just fucking… stop."

Stiles immediately pulls back like he has been slapped across the face and Derek looks up to see a flash of hurt, and he smells the embarrassment, the disappointment, the sadness, he sees Stiles trying to compose himself, clearing his throat, looking like he is about to apologise and… and Derek is a person. He may be a born wolf, but he has a human heart. Even the wolf in him seems to be whining at the loss of contact. Stiles is still muttering apologies for invading his personal space and his hand is reaching for the door handle as though he's about to walk all the way home and Derek just places a hand on his shoulder to halt his movement.

Funny, all those years ago when Stiles had his hand on his shoulder in front of the police station, he slammed Stiles into the steering wheel just to prove to Stiles and himself that they were not having a moment, Derek isn't interested in the whole doe-eyed, surreptitious glance bullshit. And so many years after, they've switched seats and Derek can only hope that Stiles doesn't slam him into the steering wheel for what he's about to do. And if he does, well, at least it would be loud and clear for Derek to back off.

Stiles holds his breath, looking at Derek, his brows furrowed. He's confused. And so is Derek. And Derek is so fucking tired of feeling this way, so he reaches over, left hand against Stiles' cheek, pulls him in and kisses Stiles. He just presses his lips against Stiles' for a long while, gentle but insistent. Stiles' lips are soft, chapped, but so soft. And when Stiles makes no move, he pulls back a little, hands still on Stiles, and bends his head to try and hide his face. _Fuck. It's all messed up now,_ he thinks. He swallows the lump in his throat and breathes through his nose. _God, what was I expecting?_

He feels Stiles lips on his forehead. And his temple. And both his eyes. And nose. And cheeks. Stiles just lifts him by the chin and kisses him all over the face, softly, reverently. Derek closes his eyes and holds on, he feels like he is about to cry. It's all too much.

He feels Stiles' breath against his lips before he feels the kiss. He shuts his eyes tighter and goes for it. His heart is beating way too fast for it to be healthy, but not in a bad way. God, Stiles is _kissing_ him. And holding his face between his palms like he knows what this means to Derek. Stiles trails kisses on his jaw and Derek could tear apart at the seams with how overwhelming this is. Every small touch feels amplified, he's practically trembling in Stiles' hands, but he isn't ashamed because Stiles looks at him with a soft smile, cocks his head to the side and gazes into his eyes and Derek loses his mind.

He pulls the lever on Stiles' seat and pushes back until the seat is reclined, holding the back of Stiles' head gently as he lays him down. Stiles pulls at his leather jacket and he climbs into the seat with Stiles, on top of him. He kisses him again and again and this time, they're a lot more heated, but he makes sure he doesn't treat Stiles roughly, afraid he'd scare him off.

As Derek lays open-mouthed kisses on the underside of Stiles' jaw, Stiles brings up Derek's left hand where it's cupped against his cheek, kisses his palm twice, and rubs his nose against the outer edge of Derek's palm, all the way to the inside of his wrist. Derek thinks he'd fall apart if Stiles did that again. He thinks he has never been touched that way before, not like he's precious. Braeden was comforting in her touch, sure. The sex was great. But she didn't touch him like he's fragile. And he thinks right now, he really is fragile. He runs his other hand across Stiles' side and feels Stiles drop Derek's left hand to splay his hand underneath Derek's leather jacket and Henley, at the small of his back. Derek closes his eyes as a shiver runs down his spine.

He hears Stiles whisper as Stiles nuzzles against his cheek, "You have no idea how long I wanted this. How _badly_ I wanted this. You. Jesus, Derek. I missed you so much. You have no idea. I would have gone with you if you had only asked. If... if you weren't with..."

Stiles leaves a hard peck on his cheek like he refuses to say her name. "Did you ever miss me?" he asks instead.

Derek nods and clutches at Stiles.

"Did you mean what you said?"

Derek looks up at that.

Stiles swallows and continues, "The text. That I have a place in your life, however I want. Did you mean it?"

Derek lets a growl escape and nods frantically. He feels his eyes shine blue as the wolf in him starts prowling close to the surface. He tries to breathe until it goes away, focus, Derek, focus. Stiles must have felt him go still because he pulls back to push Derek's face towards him and Derek keeps his eyes shut. _Please stop._

"Derek? Hey? What is it?"

Derek cracks his eyes open slightly, and Stiles catches the blue gaze. And he doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Doesn't laugh. Just stares into his eyes for the longest time.

"Fuck, Derek, you're so beautiful."

Nobody's called Derek beautiful before. Pretty, yes. Braeden has said it a few times. Handsome. He gets a lot. Hot. Fuckworthy. That one was from Kate. He feels nauseous thinking about it. But not beautiful.

Derek pushes both his hands beneath Stiles coat and plaid shirt, palms against his warm torso, and Stiles arches his back as his hips hitch against Derek's. He kisses Stiles, tongue sliding against tongue, raking his fingers against Stiles' chest and taking delight in the way Stiles whimpers... when he feels something vibrate.

"Fuck, fuck. Wait. Phone."

Derek moves away far enough for Stiles to reach into his front pocket, muttering cuss words, as he takes out the phone, presses a button to stop the vibration and drop it on the back seat. But the Caller ID is visible from where Derek's perched on Stiles' lap and he sees it's Lydia. _Oh._ How did he forget? His heart gives out at that.

He feels the pain hit him with such a force, like that one time Kali plunged the metal pipe through his body. Stiles is still kissing his collarbone, ignorant of what just happened. Ignorant that Derek is drowning again, rocks in his chest. Stiles is _engaged_ to Lydia. It's the reason why Derek needed to get out urgently before he passed out in the dining room or worse, wept into his food. And here he is, close to making love to a man who had just promised someone else to honour and love them till the end of his life.

His head spins as he replays Stiles saying that he has wanted Derek for so long, how he missed him, he called Derek beautiful. But then again, he had wanted Lydia all the more, for even longer. He called her beautiful just a while ago. And he built a life with Lydia, he shares a home with her, he asked her to marry him. And Derek, he wants Stiles more than anything, needs him now in this moment more than ever before, and he can even admit out loud that he loves Stiles, he really loves him, but he can't be that third person, that one night gone wrong, that _mistake_ before Stiles runs back to the love of his life.

For a second, he wonders how Stiles had the stomach to whisper in his ears all these sweet nonsense, how he could touch him like that, kiss him, when he's cheating on his fiancée in a car in the middle of a preserve in front of Derek's childhood home. How cheap is that? Stiles is not that guy, he knows Stiles. He's fiercely loyal. How could _he_ of all people? Maybe the years have changed him. Derek hardly spoke to him, how could he _know_ Stiles? He likes to think he does. But this man, holding him together with his strong arms, tongue tracing circles against his collarbone, he's not the same person. Derek knows who he was, who he used to be. Not who he _is_. He wonders if Stiles is someone capable of lying to his face. But he would have picked up the lie. But how can he honestly want Derek when he has Lydia? Maybe Stiles has a heart big enough to love both of them, maybe Stiles is different. Or maybe he meant _this_ as in _sex_. Maybe Stiles wanted nothing more than a one night stand. But Derek can't. He needs Stiles too much.

"Derek? Derek, hey. Buddy, back to earth," he hears Stiles' worried voice.

He looks down to see where Stiles shirt is pushed up, revealing his bare torso, where his hands are still splayed across his chest. He removes them like the touch burns, pulls down Stiles' shirt for him, climbs back into his seat wordlessly.

"Derek? What's going on? You're scaring me," Stiles' voice cracks and so does Derek's heart.

He feels the apathetic mask he had practised all these years slip back on as he puts a boundary between him and Stiles.

"We shouldn't have."

He hears it in Stiles' tone of voice, turning dangerous and icy, "Shouldn't have?"

"It was a mistake. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you. This is not right."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

He doesn't look up, but he smells the hurt, the betrayal, the frustration, consumed by the stench of rage as the rejection registers. Stiles aggressively twists around to reach for his phone in the back seat, pulls at the car handle roughly until Derek releases the lock and slams the door hard with a shout. _Really, Stiles? You're hurt? You? After what you just did to me?_ Derek wonders coldly.

He walks down the road and Derek is not a condescending asshole to ask him to get back in the car before he freezes to death. He knows Stiles, or he thought he did at least. He just knows that it will only force Stiles to spiral into more negativity. So, he lets him have this independence, but he follows him in his car as Stiles walks back down the isolated path. He sees Stiles pick up the phone and call someone. Scott maybe. Instructs the person to pick him up at the corner street, walks out of the preserve as Derek watches him. And within 5 minutes of waiting at the street, looking away from Derek's car, body held tight against the cold, he sees a cab arrive. It's Lydia. He called Lydia. Of course, he would. Derek wonders if he'd kiss Lydia when he steps in the cab. The same mouth that was on him merely ten minutes ago. He wonders if he'd tell Lydia about it. He feels so drained, he can't even afford the tears. Just slams his head against the head rest a few times and sits quietly for a long while.


	13. i said to the stars, consume me

_And then the day came_  
 _when the risk to remain_  
 _tight in a bud_  
 _was more painful_  
 _than the risk it took_  
 _to blossom._  
\- Anais Nin

Within an hour after reaching the loft, Derek's phone starts ringing insistently. It's Scott. Derek runs the different possibilities in his head. Stiles either told him what happened and Scott is pissed off because 1) Derek almost ruined his best friend's relationship or 2) he somehow hurt Stiles' ego with his rejection. Or Scott could just be worried that he hasn't heard from either one of them. Derek has neither the strength nor the patience to deal with Scott right now. So, he cancels the call, sends a text, _Stiles is at Lydia's, I'm home,_ turns off his phone and goes to shower.

He sits under the stream of searing hot water until his skin reddens. He needs to get rid of Stiles' scent that envelops and drowns him. He wonders if he will ever get rid of the phantom touch branded in his memory. He soaks for an hour until he can't tell the difference between his own tears and the hot water dripping relentlessly over his face. He misses his family, someone, anyone, who would have cared enough to try and talk him out of feeling this way. Feeling like the greatest favour he could do for himself is to end it all. He's been living on borrowed time anyway. Maybe it's not worth persisting any longer like this. An omega, out of place, loving someone he could never have and destroying every other relationship in his life.

Derek, in his wolf form, lies by the bedside on the floor for two days without eating or showering. He thinks of running through the woods but the preserve is no longer sacred. It will only serve to remind him of Christmas night and Stiles' warm whispers against his cheek, his nose brushing against Derek's wrist, and he would rather stab his eyes out with a fork than go anywhere near the mansion. So, he stays on the floor, sleeps until he can't anymore, then stares at the paint and the scratches, the corners and the cobwebs, the clock and the skies through his window, but he hardly moves. He would have looked dead if anyone else were to see him through the huge window. By now, he wishes he did more than look the part.

On the third day, he hears footsteps approaching his loft and he begins to panic. He has neighbours now; he rented out the block when he left town. He wishes that's where the footsteps are headed but his hearing and instincts tell him the person's headed his way. If he doesn't move, they'd go away. And he hears the knock, getting gradually louder and more frantic with his stubborn silence. He closes his eyes tightly and waits it out. _Go away, go away, go away._

Until he hears a female voice, furious and quiet like she knows he can hear her murmur, "I know you're in there, you fucking coward. Open the door."

Lydia. Great. She must have found out about Derek kissing Stiles. He stays in his full-shift, just refusing to budge. She knocks again, a lot harder than before and raises her voice.

"I am not leaving until you open this door, Derek. Don't think you can get out of this."

Derek growls and whines like he has been kicked repeatedly in the gut and moves towards the door relunctantly, pulling the latch with his teeth. When Lydia hears the latch unlock, she forcefully drags the door open and lets out a small shriek as she sees the wolf, more than half her height in her direct eyesight.

She composes herself with a haughty eye roll and says, "I don't speak wolf. Go shift."

When Derek doesn't budge, she bends to his eye level and mutters dangerously with clenched teeth, "You heard me. Don't make me bring out the mountain ash."

Derek isn't afraid. He is accustomed to physical threats and at this point, he doesn't really care about his well-being. In fact, he could rip her apart before she could even reach into her bag. But he can respect her tenacity. And he owes her this much. He wronged her when he made a move on Stiles. The least he can do is take the verbal lashings. So, he drags his clothes with his teeth, climbs up the stairs to the room he no longer uses since he moved his bed to the ground floor, and swiftly shifts.

As he walks down the stairs in human form, Lydia glares at him up and down before remarking, "You look like shit."

He thinks, _I feel like shit._

"You deserve it. For what you did to Stiles."

He wonders how she knew what he was thinking, but then again, it probably shows in his slouch. He goes to sit on his bed.

"Seriously, Derek, I knew you were an asshole but how big of an asshole can you be?"

"I'm sorry…"

When she stops pacing to glare at him, he looks at his feet, "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

It's all he can say for the damage he inflicted on her relationship. How inadequate.

"You didn't mean to—Well, fuck you! You did."

"I'm sorry, Lydia."

"Sorry doesn't cut it. What the fuck is your problem?"

He keeps his mouth shut and eyes on the ground. He doesn't know what she expects out of this visit. He is as frustrated and angry with himself as she is. And he is ashamed. He can hardly breathe right anymore. She grabs him by the chin and roughly pushes his face up to meet her eyes, but looks a little taken aback to see tears welling in Derek's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says softly again because… because he has no words. Because this hurts and he's tired and he hates himself for ruining everybody's lives over and over again. He should have never returned to Beacon Hills.

Lydia looks disconcerted by his reaction. She probably came prepared for a screaming contest and maybe even claws and fangs. Not Derek Hale looking like he is a moment away from weeping on the floor.

"Derek- Why? Just tell me that. Why?"

When he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, she adds, "What made you think it was a good idea to kiss him and then-?"

"I wasn't thinking. He was there and I needed him… and he… I…I guess—I just—I lost it."

He tries to drop his head, but Lydia grabs his chin a little tighter.

He continues, "I'm sorry. I love him, I've loved him for a long time… before the two of you even- and I know that's not an excuse. I know I shouldn't have kissed him-"

"For Christ's sake, if you love him, why the fuck did you go around breaking his heart like that? You told him it was a mistake after he poured his heart out to you. What the hell is wrong with you?"

That…was not what he expected from Lydia. An old, familiar anger moves in place, pushing out his shame and sorrow, and Derek finds himself clenching his jaw, glaring defensively.

"Would you rather I stole your fucking fiancé from you?"

"Huh?!" Lydia raises her voice, sounding extremely annoyed at the shift in tone.

He shoves her hand away. "What I want to know is why you're here and not back home, screaming at Stiles for cheating on you."

Lydia is silent for a long, long time and Derek feels himself lose his anger just as quickly as he wielded it, feels guilt course through his vein, and he tries his best to hold on to his anger because he would fall apart if he doesn't.

Lydia says very carefully and slowly, like she's gauging his reaction and calculating her next move, "How would Stiles be cheating on me…?"

Derek looks up at that. And something must have clicked in Lydia's mind because she continues a little more assertively, "When we aren't even together."

Derek's eyes widen at that and he feels his mouth open, but he isn't forming any words.

"Derek, Stiles isn't my fiancé," she utters slowly, measuring his expression.

"He lives with you. He moved to New York with you. He bought the ring for you-"

"Yes, yes, and no. He didn't buy me the ring. Jackson did. My fiancé. Jackson. The man I'm about to marry. The man you bit and turned into a wolf. That guy."

"Jackson? What?!"

"Yes, Jackson."

"He's in London the last I checked."

"He is. We have been in a long distance relationship for the past two years, but now he's moving to New York in a month so we can be together. "

"But Stiles-"

"Is my best friend. My family."

Derek looks past Lydia at the metal door of his loft like he has never seen it before. _What?!_

"Goddamnit, Derek. Are you that stupid? Why would he be with me? He has always been in love with you."

"I don't…" He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "He's not… What?"

Lydia lets out an exasperated growl and sits next to him, bounces on the bed a little.

"Derek Hale," she places a firm hand on his bicep, "Stiles is in love with you. He has been for the longest time."

"But he was in love with _you_ for the longest time."

"Yes. From 3rd grade. Until you came along. Until you saved him from Jackson when he was… you know," she raises her eyebrow, as though saying what he was made her deeply uncomfortable. "And you saved all of us. Over and over. And Stiles did the same for you. I mean, you should know this. You're a wolf. Scott can smell it on him. Why couldn't you?"

"I—I did... but he was a child. It was just an attraction."

"Is he still a child?"

"I… I tried not to catch his scent lately. It's too… distracting," he finishes lamely.

"Okay, no. Let's not," she shakes her head resolutely like she's trying to wipe out an invasive thought. "The point is there is a very sad boy, curled up in my childhood bed, crying over you, and I love him to death and I will kill you if you don't fix what you broke."

Derek looks her at her warily and swallows again. She must have seen something in that gesture because her gaze softens and she slides her hand up and down his shoulder as she says, "And you deserve that too. You deserve to be loved by that boy. You deserve each other."

Derek feels himself get teary again. "But… but—"

"No buts. No more excuses. Come with me and fix this."

"No, but I fucked up. I… fucked up," he ends with a murmur as he looks at his hands. "I always fuck up. He's better off without me."

"No, he's not. Derek, you might be a little slow and… very uncommunicative… and really frustrating. But you're alright. You're kind. You're good for him."

When she notices Derek's unconvinced shrug, she adds hastily, "And we all fuck up. I mean, look at Jackson. You remember. You were there for his fuck ups. He changed. He changed so much. He is so wonderful… in fact, when he's all settled in New York, I'm gonna bring him home so all of you can see how he turned out. He's a good guy, Derek. He made mistakes, but he deserved a second chance. I mean, you gave him that chance. You could have killed him when he was the… you know… you even considered it, but you saw him for the boy he was. You and Stiles gave him this life. So, give yourself that chance."

"Do you think Stiles would?"

"Give you a chance?"

Derek nods uncertainly.

"That's for him to decide. But you have to try. He needs to hear it from you. After all he's been through, he deserves this. And from the look of it," she touches under his eye softly, like she could see the fatigue and grief, "you need to say it too."

She stands up, runs a hand over her dress and pulls his arm, "Come home with me, Derek. I'm not giving you a choice."

Derek almost shrugs her off, but if there's a chance, even the slightest possibility that perhaps he can have this, that the universe would let him love Stiles, he has to take it. He can hear Braeden in his head. _What's the worst that could happen? You are allowed to want, Derek. You are allowed to be happy. Stop running away._

"I need a shower first."

Lydia smiles knowingly. "Yeah, you should."

And as he walks to the bathroom, she announces, "Oh, and wear your green Henley. Stiles waxes lyrical about it."

Green Henley it is then.


	14. i love in spite of my clenched fists

_We wear our traumas  
the way the guillotine wears gravity._  
 _Our lovers' necks are so soft._  
-Andrea Gibson

The eighteen minutes it takes to shower, put on the green Henley and black jeans and leather jackets, grab the keys and wallet, look over to see Lydia eyeing him with a soft smirk that says _Good job, let's roll,_ that eighteen minutes? That's the last time Derek had been breathless in a good way. The excitement and hope thrumming in his veins kept him moving faster than his thoughts can catch up to him, faster than the voice at the back of his head that tells him he isn't deserving of love and that he will hurt himself and Stiles irreparably. It lasts all of eighteen minutes.

Then he steps into his black Camaro and is hit with the acrid scent of his despair and frustration lingering from Christmas night. And as though life decided that it wasn't a hard enough punch to the gut, the strong sillage of Stiles' chemosignals intermingles with Derek's, making him almost throw up with the way his stomach knots itself. He gets out of the car and shuts the door, Lydia still in it, looking like he has lost his mind.

By the time she steps out and looks over the roof of the car to shout at him, he has his forehead resting against the door and his eyes shut against the world.

"Derek, what-?"

"Can't…," he clears his throat, not wanting to show any more weakness than he already has, "can't do it. Sorry."

"What the hell?" she whispers, almost to herself before raising her voice at him. "Derek, this is not a choice, you hear me?! You're coming with me."

She's shivering from the cold even as she glares in defiance.

"Why do you care?"

"Because you deserve to be hap—"

He looks up at that, his face framed in something akin to anger. "No. Because you want Stiles to be happy."

"Yes, but that means being with you. And that will make you happy too, Derek. Don't even deny it."

"Can't you see it, Lydia? We're not—It's not that easy. We're different people now. He thinks he still… but he'll figure out soon enough. I'm not right for him. And I will hold him back. He has a life in New York. I'm just a dead weight, a past he's running away from."

Lydia's face transforms from frustration to confusion to anger until she finally lets go. Breathing in and out for a moment, clouds forming from her breath.

She says calmly, "Come and say that to him yourself."

"How will that help anyone?"

"It's the least you can fucking do, Derek. Wake up! It isn't all about you!"

Derek opens his mouth to retort, but Lydia holds up her hand to cut him off as she continues, "You don't know what life was like for him in the past five years since you left. You don't know what he has lost. You have no fucking idea because you weren't _here_. And I don't blame you for that, I really don't. I was the only person who truly defended your intentions to leave because I wanted to leave as well when Allison… I needed to. I get that. But you don't get to tell me what _Stiles_ needs and doesn't cause you don't know him like I do!"

She takes a deep breath, watches Derek as he looks past her at the street light before looking down, eyes flitting with guilt, and she crosses over to his end. He sits on the pavement for a moment, looking like that would keep her from punching him. The pavement has been cleared off of snow but it's still cold enough to make it extremely uncomfortable for Lydia to sit upon despite her many layers of clothing.

She sits next to him anyway with an exasperated sigh because she's stubborn like that.

"Whatever the decision is, it has to come from both sides. You don't get to make decisions about what's right for _him_. If you don't think this will work out, tell him that. But he has to hear it from you. Or he will keep going like this. Like he's still sitting on the bench in high school, watching everyone else get a shot at lacrosse except him. Because he's that kind of guy. He doesn't let go of anyone or anything. And he doesn't move on _._ "

"That's what he did with you?"

"Yes. But you can't compare his feelings for me and for you."

"Why not?"

"Because he loved me for being that super smart girl who once rocked the science exhibition in 6th grade. I was an idea that he obsessed over. The world was a lot kinder to us then. We had the luxury of wasting our time on infatuations. But you…He loves you despite the world being fucking hell. His whole life has turned into a nightmare he can't escape from and we've all seen way too many deaths to still be…human… hopeful, alive on the inside, I guess. I don't know if it makes sense. He loves you with all the remaining human capacity he has, with what little hope he could harbour. That's like… like this."

She points at the crack on the pavement and the small brown leaves pushing out of the seams. Weeds growing through asphalt despite winter. It shocks Derek to see that it could do that. Shouldn't it be completely dead by now?

"It's not a feeling that goes away. It's not all fragile and pretty and sensible. It's not an idea that he romanticizes. That kind of feeling doesn't die easy… despite circumstances. It's the kind that Jackson and I have, you see. We've seen each other at our ugliest moments, with blood on our hands and we've practically drowned in guilt and suffering. You know how life was back here..."

Derek nods ruefully, feeling remorseful that these children were dragged into the hell hole he lived in. Wishes he could have done something to spare Jackson. Erica, Boyd, Isaac. Everyone that he turned into a wolf. Everyone that he should have protected. They were children. They should have been worried about homework and prom and the next big crush. Not running for their lives and watching people they love choke on their own blood, unable to save yet another person.

She interrupts his thoughts before he can dwell further into the dark recesses of his mind. She says a little louder and breathless, like she wants to chase away the trail of his ugly feelings.

"And we still…" she shivers as she persists, "we can still make each other believe that we deserve to live another day, you know? We deserve to be loved. We deserve a better ending than what's given to us. We didn't choose this—this life. But we get to have a say on who we choose to spend it with. That's… that's who you are to Stiles. I don't know… if you understand," she finishes lamely.

Derek remains silent for a long time, staring at the withering weed springing out of the fissures on the road, still persisting. It might just make it another day. He thumbs the leaves tenderly. Never before has he been more careful and observant about a tiny life growing out of the hard and cold concrete joints. He thinks it's beautiful. He thinks it's holy.

"Would it be that bad? To try? I mean, we're in hell anyway, Derek. Can you at least try? If not for yourself, for Stiles? I think you'd be good for each other. You're more than good enough. Even if you can't believe it just yet."

Derek looks up at her, like he has never seen her before. She squeezes his arm and lays her head gently against his shoulder, trying to reassure him. Who would have thought that Lydia and Derek would ever have a moment? He smiles a little at the thought.

"And look at you, green Henley and all. You want this, Derek. And that's not forbidden. Not anymore."

She wraps her hands around him, clinging to him for his body heat. He hugs her back, rubbing her arms for warmth and whispers, "Let's get going before you freeze to death."

"Oh, so you've noticed?" she glares at him. They both laugh a little as he helps her into the car and braces himself for the ride.


	15. all stories are love stories

_when mouths_  
 _find mouths and minds follow or minds find_  
 _minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –_  
 _how about you call that sacred. how about you raise_  
 _your veined right hand and swear on the blood_  
 _that branches there, yes. I take this crush_  
 _to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy_  
 _until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize_  
 _photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce_  
 _to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,_  
 _and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss_  
 _possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked_  
 _in the dark of a room to which you will never_  
 _return. anything that moves the world toward light_  
 _is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,_  
 _lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this_  
 _is the substance that holds our little atoms together_  
 _into bodies. this sweet paste of longing_  
 _is all that binds us to the earth._  
 _and all we know of the gods._ "

— **Marty McConnell**

As Lydia opens the door to her house, she says, "You ready?"

Derek steps in tentatively, "Will I ever be?"

"Dumb question. Agreed."

And that's when Derek hears the footsteps rushing down the stairs. And he knows this scent by heart. And he knows the rage before he has even been confronted by it. He takes a step back involuntarily, bracing himself. Lydia looks at him oddly, but turns around knowingly as he finally comes into view, ready to pick a fight.

"Scott… listen-" Lydia starts.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Scott asks Derek, gritting his teeth.

Lydia answers instead, "He's here to talk to Stiles."

"He's done enough damage as it is."

They talk over Derek like he's invisible.

"Yes and he's here to fix it."

Scott turns his glare at Derek instead, moves closer until he has a finger pushing back on Derek's chest and Derek tries to hold his ground, despite feeling absolutely awful.

"I thought you loved him, Derek. I thought you cared. I've been watching the two of you pine over the other for years and I thought I could trust you to take care of him. But you are such a fucking—"

"Then let me," Derek says and he shocks everyone, including himself because _what?_

He didn't expect the words to slip out. And he sure as hell didn't expect to sound as confident as he did. But when he assesses himself, he's surprised to see that for once, he is absolutely certain.

"What?" Scott asks hesitantly.

"Let me take care of him. Let me fix this."

He stops himself from saying _let me love him,_ but it's loud and clear for everyone involved.

When he sees that Scott, despite his uncertainty, refuses to make way for Derek, the older man adds, "I made a mistake, Scott. But I know better now. I won't… I don't intend to hurt him."

Lydia throws out a remark like she wants to get Scott out of the way as soon as she can.

"Look, he thought Stiles was engaged to me and—"

"What? How on earth did you-"

"Exactly, right. Kinda dumb of him but what can we do? It's all just a mess. Let him go see Stiles. We need to leave."

"But Stiles is sleeping."

"Well, I'm sure he wouldn't mind waking up to this broody, handsome face," Lydia quips.

Scott rolls his eyes. "He hasn't slept in days. I don't feel comfortable—"

"Scott! Can you just-?"

Derek gets tired of their interruptions and says softly, "Can you just trust me to handle this?"

Scott looks at him calculatingly, observes every twitch on Derek's face, and if Derek wasn't a born wolf, he wouldn't have noticed the subtle way that Scott's assessing his chemosignals and heart rate.

"Do you love him?" Scott asks.

"Yes."

And Scott nods, satisfied that his heart didn't trip. Derek knows it was calm and steady. Despite all these years in between them, loving Stiles is the most truthful thing that Derek can admit to.

Scott holds him by the shoulders, strong and unmoving, as he says, "I trust you."

His eyes flares red for a moment and Derek knows what that means. It isn't just Scott trusting him as a person, a friend to Derek, a brother to Stiles, it's a vote of confidence as an Alpha, a sign that the pack is safe with Derek. Because that's who Stiles is, whether or not he wants to stay in Beacon Hills. Stiles is Scott's pack and will always be protected.

Derek nods firmly and watches as Scott and Lydia leave the house, closing the door behind them. He hears a muttered, "good luck" from Lydia as they walk away.

He spends two minutes by the door, just counting his breaths. His mind drifts back to the night in the car, when Derek's eyes turned blue and Stiles called him beautiful. Just like his mum did. The first night when his eyes turned blue after…Paige. He expected his mother to be repulsed, to pull away, to be angry, or disappointed or terrified, something, anything _but_ the tender way she held his face and said he was still beautiful. She was his mother, his Alpha. She believed in his humanity, his intentions.

But Stiles has seen worse from him. Has seen him ruthlessly claw out throats and rip out chests in fights. Has seen him, hands shaking, covered in Boyd's blood, swaying like he is about to fall over from the grief, never to get up again. Has seen him do awful things that justify the cold, icy blue eyes that his wolf possesses. And yet… yet he thought Derek was beautiful. Maybe he'll love him still, despite his mistakes.

With that thought, Derek resolutely climbs the stairs and tracing Stiles' quiet snores, walks to the bedroom. He opens the door quietly to see Stiles on one side of the bed, curling in on himself, facing away from the door, sleeping soundly with an arm around a pillow. Scott must have been lying next to him on the other side, judging from the hoodie he left behind and his laptop still playing Star Wars in a hushed volume. Derek walks around the bed to Scott's side, closes the laptop with a click and places it on the bedside table, drops the hoodie on top of it, and perches on the corner of the bed, looking at Stiles' face.

He sees the dark rings below his eyes, the way his cheekbones stand out at a sharp angle, and more than anything, he senses the anguish in the air. He can smell the salt of the tears, Stiles must have felt so horrible for so long. He hates himself when he thinks about it, but he has to remind himself that he didn't _know._ It would have been wrong to act on his impulses if Stiles were to marry Lydia. It was the right thing to do at the time. He didn't know any better.

As he thinks about waking Stiles up, he also thinks about waking up next to Stiles. How nice would it be if Derek were the one who had the privilege of lying down next to him, with his arm wrapped around Derek. It reminds him of how exhausted he feels, not having enough rest the past few days himself. He strips himself off of the leather jacket, looks down at his jeans, wondering if it will be too much to take them off as well and decides against it, climbs into bed with Stiles. He doesn't touch him though, leaves some space between their bodies so that he doesn't accidentally wake Stiles up or scare him. He doesn't want to be deemed as taking advantage of Stiles.

He lies down next to him, listening to the sound of Stiles' heartbeat, blinking slowly as he observes with lidded eyes, the rise and fall of Stiles' chest, his jugular notch, the pulse against his neck, and without an effort, falls into deep sleep.

Derek wakes up to the sound of a rapidly beating heart. For a second, he is so disoriented that he can't tell where he is, so he closes his eyes again. He imagines that he's about to dive headfirst into one of those panic attacks that he gets right as he resurfaces from sleep and starts counting his breathing until he's conscious enough to realise that it isn't his heartbeat. His eyes open abruptly and lands on Stiles. _Stiles._ Who immediately starts at the sight of his open eyes, hands flapping as he almost falls over the edge of the bed, dragging the blanket with him. Derek reaches out quickly and grabs him before he manages to fall on his back and drags him back up. He would have laughed if Stiles didn't look like he was about to start screaming.

Stiles pushes Derek's hands away as soon as he has steadied himself.

"…the fuck?"

"Didn't mean to scare you," Derek says quietly, hoping that he wouldn't startle him any further.

"What the fuck?!" Stiles says louder.

Stiles tangles himself out of the sheets with more effort than is needed, storms off to the banister and shouts, "Scott! Scott! Where the hell? LYDIA!"

Derek moves out of the bed a lot more gracefully, stands by the half-open door and says, "They're not here. I just wanted to talk."

Stiles doesn't turn around to look at him when he says coldly, "Get out."

"Stiles…"

"I said get out," he turns sharply then, grabbing Derek by the shirt and shouts, "GET OUT!"

"No... Stiles, please…"

With his nostrils flaring, Stiles says through clenched teeth, "Then I'll go."

He walks past Derek as he bodily pushes him aside. Derek stumbles back because he wasn't holding his ground. Because he wasn't expecting Stiles to be that strong.

He moves into the room, shoves a few things in the pocket of his sweatpants, and turns around furiously to walk out.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait…"

The words rush out of Derek's mouth in a stream of desperation, trying to get him to stop a second. Stiles doesn't stop as he grabs the knob to pull the door open, ready to storm off and Derek can't have that anymore. Derek moves behind Stiles, grabs the knob himself, his hand on top of Stiles, and in a show of force, pushes the door shut and holds it there. Stiles is trapped between the door and Derek, his back pressing against Derek's chest and his hand stuck under Derek's and he's furious. Derek can feel that being manhandled is making Stiles even more aggravated, so he places the other hand gently on the ball of Stiles' shoulder, and rests his forehead against Stiles' back. This startles Stiles into inaction.

"Stiles. I didn't know, okay? I'm sorry."

"For what?" Stiles spits out.

"For ruining the one chance I had."

Derek realises that the more he talks, the quieter Stiles becomes. So, he decides to talk it all out, holding Stiles in place like that, unable to escape.

"I thought you were with Lydia. I thought you were in love with her. That you were engaged to her."

"How the fuck…?" Stiles attempts to turn around to face Derek in his annoyance, but Derek tightens the hand on his shoulder to stop him.

He whispers, "Don't turn around. I can't do this with you… with you looking at me."

Stiles turns back forward, for once, not resisting Derek.

"You know what you mean to me, Stiles. Deep down, you know. We've been skirting around this for years. That's why I had to leave."

"Because of me?" Stiles asks, almost in horror.

"Partly, yes. That day when I… when I shifted completely… you thought I was going to die. You looked at me like… like you wanted something and I couldn't stay."

Stiles drops his head against the door, pulling away from Derek's forehead, "You left because I was going to tell you that I love you?"

"I left because I wouldn't have been able to refuse you if you did."

"Because you were with Braeden," Stiles says with resignation.

"And you with Malia. But more than anything, it wasn't right."

"Why?"

"You were 17 and I…"

It takes Stiles a moment to register before he says a little stubbornly, "I'm not you and you're not Kate."

"Yes. But we would have been if I didn't walk away."

"Derek, you know that's not true—'

"It doesn't matter now, Stiles. It was the right thing to do for the both of us. To learn what life could be like without the other."

Derek smells the tears before he notices the body shaking against his.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles' voice cracks and Derek can't breathe again.

"Because… just because," Derek finishes.

He lets Stiles cry against the door, his hands still holding Stiles in place, and he ignores the lump in his own throat.

After a moment, Stiles asks, "So what now? You're letting me down easy before I go back to New York?"

"What? No! No, I'm here because it's finally right… for us to be together. If that's what you want."

"What?" Stiles parrots him, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.

He lifts his head from the door and Derek, unable to find anymore words in himself to explain this, moves one hand across Stiles shoulders, his palm resting on the other shoulder, and moves his left hand away from the knob and holds Stiles by the waist. He hugs him from the back like that and drops his head against Stiles shoulder, pressed together without any more physical distance. He feels Stiles droop against him, letting Derek carry his weight, and that… that Derek can do. He's strong enough for that.

"I need to hear you say it," Stiles whispers like he is afraid to disturb the silence.

Derek lifts his head, confused for a second. But when he begins to understand the doubt, he presses a kiss on Stiles' slack jaw and whispers in his ears, "I love you, idiot."

"Really?" Stiles asks, breathless.

Derek kisses his ear and his cheek as he whispers, "Every day. Always. And I'll say it until you hear me. I love you." He kisses Stiles' temple before rubbing his nose against the side of his face, "I love you."

Stiles pulls away Derek's hands away then, turning around in the small space before pulling Derek closer by his wrists and wrapping Derek's hands around him again.

"Say it now," Stiles asks, like he is afraid that Derek will retract his statement, now that Stiles is looking him dead in the eye.

Derek smiles softly, rubs his nose playfully against Stiles', "I love you, Stilinski."

"So, you won't call it a mistake if I kiss you now?"

Derek moves really close to his face, lips brushing against Stiles' as he says, "I'll call it a mistake if you don't."

Stiles kisses him then, hard and rough in desperation, like he doesn't believe he can have this. It hurts enough for Derek to almost pull back, but he knows that Stiles' mind is a treacherous place, like his own. If he pulls back, Stiles will misinterpret it. So, Derek moves one hand away from his waist and holds Stiles by the jaw, guiding him until the kiss gets softer and more enjoyable for both of them. He moves his hand to the back of Stiles' head and pushes him back gently until he is leaning against the door, head cushioned in Derek's large hand, and they kiss for a long time.

At some point, they're both grinning at each other, making it difficult to kiss, but they don't mind. Stiles has his hands bunched against Derek's chest and he hums a little as they sway when they kiss.

"Love this shirt. You wore it for Thanksgiving."

"Hmmm… Lydia told me, and I quote, _Stiles waxes lyrical about it_."

Stiles squawks. "Oh my God, she didn't. What?"

"She did," Derek says laughingly.

"Ugh so embarrassing." Stiles hides his face against his bunched fists.

"So tell me, what do you think about it?"

Stiles looks up, "Your shirt?"

"Yeah."

"Go away."

He goes to hide his face again but Derek hooks a finger under his chin and makes him look up. He laughs at how red Stiles' face was.

"Come on now, what about it?"

Stiles looks him in the eye, breathes deeply, and determinedly utters, "It makes your eyes look like a forest on a quiet day when the sun is up and the skies are golden and the trees are greener than they ever were, and I can almost believe that the whole world is beautiful and nothing else matters, but this man, this man with green eyes and a deep frown and kind hands and a kinder heart. This man is everything."

Derek… wasn't expecting that. He finds a lump forming in his throat again and he laughs wetly, a little uncomfortable with how much attention Stiles is giving him.

"All that for a shirt?" Derek asks jokingly, trying to lessen the intensity with which Stiles is gazing at him.

"All that for _you._ "

Derek looks away, unable to keep this up. It's all too much. Stiles is too kind. Stiles places his palm against Derek's cheek and forces his gaze back.

"I love you, Derek."

And Derek should know this by now, it really is ridiculous that this should throw his aback the way it does, but it must show on his face how surprised he is, given that Stiles' eyebrows just scrunched up.

"Is your heart beating as hard as mine?" Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head. Stiles cocks an eyebrow, then presses his lips against Derek's pulse point before leaving a soft, lingering kiss there.

"Liar. Your heart is beating like a madman," Stiles says with a knowing smile.

"You're driving me crazy," Derek whispers.

There's a shift in mood as Stiles' eyes narrow. Then he's pushing Derek back towards the bed and right before Derek drops on it, Stiles kisses him, sucks on Derek's bottom lip and says, "And I don't plan to stop."

Derek thinks he's okay with that.


	16. these, our bodies, possesed by light

_"_ _Tell me about the dream  
where we pull the bodies out of the lake  
and dress them in warm clothes again.  
How it was late, and no one could sleep,  
the horses running until they forget that they are horses.  
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere  
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,  
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days  
were bright red, and every time we kissed  
there was another apple to slice into pieces.  
Look at the light through the windowpane.  
That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable  
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
Tell me we'll never get used to it."  
―_ Richard Siken, Crush

Somewhere along the line, they fell asleep together after hours of alternately making out and just lying down and staring at each other, trying to work through their own emotions, joy, nostalgia, sorrow, uncertainty and everything in between. When Derek wakes up too early for his liking, it's to the sound of a heavy heart beat, slumped shoulders, perched on the corner of the bed, quietly and reluctantly packing up a suitcase. Derek knew that Stiles was leaving to New York today but he thought… he doesn't know what he thought. Maybe he assumed that Stiles would want to stay a little longer now that they are… He doesn't know what they are.

"Stiles?" he calls softly, voice cracking from disuse and bubbling insecurity.

Stiles turns back at that, cradles his open suitcase so as to not spill all his clothes and places it gently on the floor before moving back to bed next to Derek.

He kisses Derek on the forehead, mumbling, "Hey."

They're both silent for a while, Stiles with his lips still against Derek's forehead, breathing warmly against Derek, while Derek stares at his collarbone. It feels warm and comfortable and loving to lay together like this, but the air around them is suffused with a sense of dread. Derek knows this because he can smell the anxiety on Stiles. And he can feel the slow, unfurling sadness in his own chest. He closes his eyes and tugs at Stiles desperately, wrapping his arms around Stiles and linking their legs, almost curling into a foetal position. Stiles, still lying on his side, chest to chest with Derek, has his nose buried in Derek's hair as he holds Derek against him. It's odd to Derek that in this moment, Stiles feels larger than he is. It feels like Stiles is protecting _him._ He wonders how they ended up like this- Stiles holding all the power, the ability to leave, knowing he still has more to life than mere Beacon Hills and Derek Hale, while Derek clutches desperately like he will forever lose this man if he loosens his grip, feeling selfish for wanting to ask Stiles to stay, to run away with him, something, anything. So, he doesn't ask. They hold each other, thumb rubbing back and forth, nuzzling, quietly breathing, until Lydia's text message vibrates rudely against the bedside table and Derek feels them both tense.

"I have to leave in an hour latest. And I still have to pack… say goodbye to dad and Scott…"

Derek doesn't say anything. For once, it's not due to a lack of something to say but a fear of asking for too much.

"Derek?"

"Hmmm…"

"What's on your mind?"

"…"

"You're doing that thing again," Stiles huffs as he slides a little further away to look at Derek's face where it's resting against his collarbone.

"What thing?"

"Scaring me."

"Sorry."

"What is it? What are you thinking about?"

"You," Derek replies, feeling vulnerable. He looks away as he tries to attempt a flippant tone and fails, "What else?"

"What about me?"

"…"

"Derek," Stiles says, sounding exasperated.

"I'm scared too."

Stiles untangles their limbs and shifts down on the mattress so he is looking directly at Derek's face and Derek resists the urge to curl further into himself or turn away.

"About?"

"You."

"Dude- please. You need to speak. We don't have the luxury of time to do this your way. What are you scared about?"

"I thought…I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I thought if I told you how I felt…and you felt the same… I thought it would make all the difference."

Stiles just quietly cups Derek's cheek, trying to get him to keep talking.

"I won't ask of you to stay, Stiles. That's unfair. But…"

"But what?" Stiles asks, rubbing his thumb against Derek's cheekbone.

"But am I a horrible person if I still wished you would?"

"No, you're not. Not at all... But I can't, Derek. I'm sorry."

"I know. You have nothing to apologise for. I know."

"I still have to complete my studies. And figure out if I want to live here…or there."

"I know. I won't ask," Derek answers, reaching forward and gently laying a kiss on Stiles' lips.

"But _I_ will. Maybe it's unfair to _you_ but I gotta ask. You can say no," Stiles says, running his hand through Derek's hair and resting his hand on the nape of his neck.

When Derek looks confused, he adds, "Will you… come with me, I mean? To New York? Live with me? I can't do this long distance. This is all so new and I don't know how to- I guess we can try but- Will you?"

Derek pauses and he sees Stiles' face morph with the uncertainty, crumbling under weight of his own request and he realises he doesn't have to think about this. He lunges forward, grabbing Stiles by his flimsy old t-shirt and kisses him hard before hugging him. Stiles' legs wraps around him too, tightening the embrace.

"Is that a yes? I need to hear you say it." Stiles whispers, breath warm against Derek's shoulder.

"Yes. I will. I want to," Derek says, unable to keep the smile off his face.

"You sure?"

He nods and feels Stiles grin against his shoulder too, before pressing a kiss there.

Derek says, "Give me a few days. To check on the mansion, Scott and all. Pack my stuff. I'll drive there."

When Stiles says enthusiastically, "Goddamnit Derek, how are you real? How is this my life? Jesus," Derek laughs and closes his eyes against the tears threatening to well in his eyes.

He doesn't know how this is his life either. But it's here. After all these years of gaping loneliness and the ache of living, of digging for home in long gone people and forsaken places, after years of seeing nowhere worth going to or staying in, he finally feels like he belongs again. Like the skies do. Like the mountains and forests and rivers. Derek Hale belongs. And he has someone to come home to.


End file.
